It’s so sad here. So completely hopeless. I can never escape him—even in my refuge, he manages to
sink in through the walls, and surround me as if to remind me that I can never truly shed myself of
him, as if to remind me that nothing will come to make it stop.
If one was to witness our intimate relationship, he might understand. If one was to see how I take
in all the pain he carries when I breathe, how he whisks by my lips, drying them so that I might
taste the heartache that he feeds on, how I shiver when he is near, and how I shiver when he is far,
he might understand. I am his slave, bending my head in compliance, surrendering myself to his every
whim.
I cannot flee his wrath or his tenderness. Our affair has been too long. I cannot abandon him. He
is all I know, all I feel, all I breathe. He has learned to live off the salt of my tears, and I
have learned to subsist on the sobs that are laced with his bittersweetness. When I reach out, he is
there. Because no one else will be. He and I. We are destined to go through life together, forever
hand in hand.