The early hours of the morning strip my stronghold of unexamined bliss. It’s in these hours the true darkness comes forth, from underneath the façade of strength worn valiantly in daylight and amidst the moonlit foreboding of another twelve-hour masquerade. It’s in these hours the memories arise.
Of loving someone so deeply that the pain seeped into my marrow. So deeply that I left for him, for me, for the us that should never be, as my bones broke with each step I took under the weight of all I wanted to keep giving. Gratitude for knowing eros and learning it is not enough.
Of not loving. The relief of not feeling pain, or love, or anything at all for an untold number of nameless someones. The joy of leaving unmarred, and feeling invincible, like love’s been outsmarted.
Of you. The terrifying beauty of your being. Caught between my loving and not loving. Swung like a predestined pendulum between my staying and my running.
The early hours of the morning awaken the fear I force to slumber. Fears that you will leave, or stay; take, or give; that I will know or not know you; endure for you or endure by living without you. Fears that I will love you, and never as much as you deserve.
