The More I, The Less I
Sure, I am conscious of every inch between us. I can’t stop trying to read your mind. I want to know what you laugh at. I want to know what makes you angry. I want to know why you leave the last seat open.
I never considered that I was vulnerable. I think I am pretty normal to be a girl with random anxieties. Anxieties like cigarettes tucked behind my ear.
I cannot start from scratch. I get through by piecing it together. I edit and trim and stick on, but I don’t pull something out of nothing. Blank nothing, that scares the shit out of me. It scares me because there’s no constraints; and so I freeze.
I need warmth, I need energy and brightness and life. I don’t think nothingness is natural. I love fake swords, with their disguised curves. The problem with cults is that they are selfless. I love the idea that generosity can shape one’s life, and distort one’s path. It escapes me sometimes, but it is intriguing to be welcoming.
The rectangles filled in, flesh enveloping a skeleton. The collection began on the floor of the living room. Actually, it began in my box of memories, waiting under my bed. I removed each scrap of paper, each photograph, each ticket stub, and laid everything out. Together like that, it was easy to picture each memory. I remembered getting my fortune read in San Francisco, I remember going to that concert and sitting in the photo booth alone.
It’s quiet. The photos don’t feel rushed because there is no one else to distract me. I became the rhythm of my breath. I didn’t fidget. Was someone waiting outside? I pulled back the curtains, but the hallway was empty as ever.
I made coffee and added cinnamon to the french press. The patterns emerged on the living room floor.
It’s that silly shirt from the thrift store, the paisley one. It’s the navy blue hat, even though I never wear hats. Finally, it’s the overcoat with the satin red stripes snaking down the back. And it’s the compulsory details: The black loafers with the white tennis socks, the dainty watch with the brown band that doesn’t work, the bracelet with 21 tiny metal beads, the mismatched rings, and the earrings that never come off.
It hasn’t been enough time for you to come back yet, but it’s hard to look away.
And I was thinking about how I fell half in love with you.
You never spoke up about if you wanted me to stay or go. You couldn’t talk to me.
And why was that the moment that you kissed me and why did you give in when you knew you weren’t going to stay with me?
Being seen is so tempting, even for the most righteous people. It’s like paradise lost. You had a weak moment. And you probably thought, “she’s weak,” because she is. I am. It’s as simple as that, maybe. It’s okay to love someone you are no longer with. What if I still like you?
I forgive you. That doesn’t mean I am too forgiving, and it doesn’t mean that it’s okay. There are worse things I could do.
The more I, the less I.
written by Jamie Greco
