journal · prose

Pressure Point

I began to second-guess your each, “I love you,” in that moment. Do you? Have you? Did you? I tore through the haystack in a fury, looking for that shining sliver of hope, to no avail, as the flames danced around me and burned the bridge between us, a fiery, twilit hell. I could not find truth there, only confusion and half-lies, while your doors opened and slammed shut, the cord between us taut and wild, ready to snap at the slightest pressure. All at once I was overcome with the need to persevere with the fevered dream that something I say might reach you through the mess, the dissonance, the cacophony, and strike a note that would let the music begin at last. But I found nothing except your wild ways and the ecstasy of my mania, the agony of your misery. You soaked me in but had nothing to offer in return, my words snapped the cord; they had too much weight with nothing there to provide a counterbalance. We flailed, we faltered, falling away from each other at lightening speeds as I attempted to escape the devastation. But I stopped to look back, and it took me whole. I collapsed, I crumbled, I dissolved into pieces of anguished passion and screamed, “but I still love you! Isn’t that enough?!” And I love you still, but love is clearly not enough. The question that haunts me now is this: is it all that’s left here?


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