restless

Between six and seven thousand languages are spoken throughout the world. With you, I speak none. Our communication lies beneath the words that clutter up our day. Our communication is breath on a window, braiding of hair, pulse. Our words only hide what we are trying to say.

I wish I had said more to you when we were 12. I could feel you in my muscles. This was not a growth spurt. This was pain. I didn't know how to grow yet. We grew apart.

I remember you scratched my arm on the playground when we were nine. You broke my skin, I cried. Was that on purpose? I remember giving you a black eye on accident right before Christmas break. Really, it was on accident. I threw a plastic lizard in the air and you looked up when it was coming down. The teacher told the class what happened; my arm was full of silent scars.

Is it okay to still love you? At my late age of 29, I still have yet to define love for myself. It's more than breath on a window, it's more than braided hair. It could be a pulse, I won't rule that out. But maybe it's a secret. Maybe it's shapeless. Maybe it's as empty and as open as our days were when we had nothing to do but grow, expand.

I have learned new languages, this time with scattered words such as lizard, vascular perfusion disorder, acetaminophen, broken. But I won't know how to ever let you go. I don't plan on trying.