CLENCHED FIST

You can part ways with love on a curbside, crowded train station platform, or bustling airport terminal but it will always follow you home. And when it does, it hollows out a gaping hole into the dead center of your sternum that stings like hydrogen peroxide in an oozing wound and then leisurely festers. That’s where love decides to live and that’s where you are for now, while you’re apart from me. Distance, I’ve learned, is a clenched fist in the chest without the following attack. An open mouth with no scream. A door with no knob to turn. You left my house today and I felt the stitches rip open again. You turned the street corner and I felt an artery begin to hemorrhage. And then you were out of sight and I felt the whole system fail. It’s as if the body requires another body to keep its seams sewn shut. So I wait for you, spilling out, overflowing with the heavy, eager thing that followed me home.

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