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He’s the song no parent ever loved me enough to sing. He’s the way water runs and bubbles over stones in a stream. He’s a quiet mind.
we could have been driving through the galaxy at warp speed and I’d be none the wiser because it feels like that just being next to him, let alone being held by him.
“No, I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I meant, ‘fuck no.’” I stare over at Maryanne, flash her a tight smile before I tack onto the end, “In no world.”
She’s so me
“Hi.” I lean against his doorframe. He looks up, and the way his whole face lifts when he sees me makes me want to cry on the spot, because how many people just light up because you walk into the room? One in a lifetime, two maybe?
and I could write a sonnet about what it’s like to be wrapped up in him, and I’d need a full day just to graze the surface of describing the shape of his mouth—there is, maybe more significantly, the invisible. How he thinks, how he feels, how he processes, how he wonders, how he breathes… He does all those things better than the rest of us, and not because he’s
perfect—he’s not, I know he’s not—but that’s just why he is.
And I think to myself, wouldn’t it be so lovely if we viewed ourselves through the same lens as the people who love us?
Could that be true? If that’s true, it would maybe mean not that he didn’t love me at all, just that he loved me in different language to my native tongue, and he never knew how to say it—which, admittedly, is still tragically sad, but is arguably less candidly cruel. Could my father actually have cared about me enough to orchestrate that? Is that even possible?
