breathe

I hear the door slam, and know it's you. I turn over to face the wall, pretending to be asleep. Because while I'm sleeping, I'm not here. I can escape to another world, a place of comfort and serenity. But I'm not in this safe place yet, but still here, only hiding my face so you don't see the tears rolling across my nose and soaking my pillow. These tears are the only release I will allow, a small physical manifestation of my inner grief. This is the only escape, but not because I don't want to release everything. I do. My hurt and pain are trapped inside, aching to come out, like a small bud waiting for sunshine and rain to release it from its fleshy prison, to reveal itself in all of its color and splendor. But it's not only my hurt and pain that are trapped, but my love. A stronger, more vibrant love than I've ever known. But the three are too intermingled now. Three separate colors thrown together on the canvas of my heart, mixed until each distinct image is unrecognizable, but is only a large, ugly smear. I hear you whispering now, quietly so as not to wake me, and my pillow is now completely soaked. Why are you saying this, all of these things that I'm not meant to hear? How did we let this happen?

I remember another time, and I'm crying then too, but now you're the reason I stop. It's late, later than we should be up, but we're together, and nothing else hurts anymore. I tell you everything, and you understand. You tell me jokes until I smile, and I'm happy, being with you.

And now you're the one crying. I see you, and I know. Neither of us speaks, but I know, without saying a word. I look at you and know. I've seen that look before, so many times before, and know what it means. So we run, run away from everyone because you don't want them to know. When we finally stop, you're still crying, but I can make you laugh. We sit down and talk, and you tell me everything that I already understand. I already understand, but I listen, knowing that these words are your release, the only outlet for your hurt. By the time we leave, you've stopped crying.

This time we're both sad, but neither of us is crying. You're leaving in the morning, and we both know of the emptiness that will result. But we don't cry, not yet. Instead, we talk. Not about your leaving, but about everything else. We talk of anything that means less than us, which is everything. We look at each other, and we know, but don't speak of it. With every meaningless word, we understand a little better. Each word gains more meaning because we're able to speak it, not speak of the hurt, and still understand. I'll cry after you're gone, and you know this. But I no longer need this physical manifestation of my pain, not while you're here, because you know it already. You know me that completely.

And now I understand. I still hear you whispering, but it no longer hurts. Tears are my outlet, these words are yours. You carry the same muted canvas as I do, and you only want to show me yours and to see mine. And now you can. I can show you everything I am and everything I feel. It's no longer the ugly smear of color it was when you walked in, but now appears as a vibrant splay of reds and oranges, the colors of love, with nothing else to dilute it. I finally understand. And after suppressing everything and suffocating my heart, I can finally breathe.