In your last message, you mentioned a brand new record by an artist you’d been getting into recently.
I think you’d really enjoy it, you wrote. You should listen. It’s just a really transitory part of her life.
And so I did. But I didn’t like it.
Maybe that’s just who we are now: two diverging worlds lacking the necessary resonance to tie them together. Separate spheres in distant orbits, damaged electrical systems, signals incapable of reaching.
Do you remember when we formed our own working circuit? When I’d catch the sparks you’d send through the wires and hold them in my hands to admire? We were gravity and music and stars aligning. Sometimes we’d even fire the same pulse down the line, surprised when they’d arrive, how we’d read each other’s minds. Love makes you think in the same language. The loss of it renders you speechless.
The things we shared. I gave you teeth and rage and strands of hair tucked beneath your pillowcase. You gave me a place to rest my head at night and gentleness and skin. What we shared, we loved.
There was no deviation.
I’m thinking of the way you used the word transitory. The implications behind it, the meanings.
Were you aware of the shift between us? Did you feel the rift? Did it stun you like a fallen powerline?
Because I didn’t.
We were who we were until we weren’t anymore.
Until the day I read your email, played the album through from the opening line to the final track, tried to like it, played it over and over until I knew all of the lyrics and voices by heart, but couldn’t.