Like mitotic spindle fibers. Waiting. To be violently torn apart once more.
We can’t be in the same room together, we cannot occupy the same quadrants of time and space. A siren blares somewhere in the distance. The pressure drops: the air escapes my lungs.
I never told you before how much you’ve inspired me. I want to recreate myself in your image. I know I’ll regret not telling you until the day you die. I know it will be you and not me first.
I’ve seen it play out so many times before: my tears warping the veneer on your wooden casket. I am kneeling, internally screaming—incessantly reworking scenarios of what might have been.
It’s not that I won’t tell you.
It’s not that I am selfishly holding onto this information like my horde of Halloween candy that we once shared behind that shed, away from your mother’s prying eyes.
It’s that I can’t. I’ve tried. I can say the words but you will not listen.
I can explain to you the bright visions of the future I see when I look at you. I can try my best to mirror your passionate creativity and illustrations of your potential.
I can write songs, and draw poetry, and create all kinds of artistic works not yet conceived—all inspired by your essence.
But it’s all meaningless unless you see it for yourself.