The Sensation of Being There and Not Being There All At Once

You weren’t right. I knew how to have fun, you just didn’t inspire me. That pear soap we loved was beautiful, because you didn’t need to eat it in order to taste it.

Maybe I didn’t spend long enough standing behind you in the bathroom and brushing your hair.

Maybe I didn’t tell you that you were pretty as often as I should have.

All I know is, because Dickinson was wrong when she referred to the heart wanting what it wants, almost every morning now, these last 10 years after hearing of your tragic death caused by a drink driver, there isn’t this intrusion of thought that haunts me whenever I think of playing hide and seek with you in a beach house beside an ocean, because I know this is exactly the way I wanted you to open me up and find me.

Instead there’s just a feeling of turning the corner of an anonymous bedroom and coming upon this beautiful girl I sense loved me once, perhaps in an earlier life, folding her clean clothes on the floor, and this indescribable sensation of being there and not being there all at once, as she fixes her blouse and looks up at the sky in my eyes at something falling through the air in there between her idea of God and God.

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