I tricked myself into missing you. I had even written about it. It went like this:
Was there any way to know for certain how long we would have to connect? No, there never is. No telling. Only guessing.
I guessed you’d be unavailable for good. I didn’t know you’d be gone. I’d say I miss you, but that phrase means nothing. More accurate is: I miss the chance of you. But without that, I think I’m better off.
You were a distant star I saw through a high-powered telescope. A formation, far away, still undergoing progress. Developing into a system with orbital rings and gravity. I saw you at the start, but you drifted away from me. A rate by which I might gauge your distance.
Thousands of light years at the nearest.
I did it, not for real reasons, I think. Only to see what it would feel like when I leave. It felt exactly as expected. I was down, sore of heart, knowing somehow I had missed out.
Turns out you are still around. Just as unavailable, but not as tangibly so. Less physically, more emotionally. You bodily still pass in and out of my space. Occupy the lounge in your quiet silent way. In shadows, you hardly make a shape. Maybe no-one notices.
But I do.
Do you want to know?
I have the nerve now to tell you.
Will it change anything?
Because ghosts don’t touch. We only phase in and out of reality. We pass each other on the brink of world lines and soul strings. You are a creature much of the same make-up as me. I know my kind. Outlier of one sort or another. Protective, shelled from the outside, cold as hell.
The question I have is are you a formless goo on the inside too?
I could tell if I could form a thought or a sound. If my own cells hadn’t turned my heart to gel. I don’t even know how I’m still alive. I should have died. Or…wait. Did I? Is this what death feels like?
Of a kind.
I am getting holes burned in the sockets where my eyes once were. I look in the mirror and see, not blue-grey irises – but dimes of ash. Charcoal burned to its last bit.
Funny how, only months ago, I had believed in that. Charcoal as a means to change the world. As a means to grow. I realized only after it was too late that the only thing to do with Charcoal after you make it with careful attention and long stretches of time – is to burn it through, all the way until it’s spent. That’s the whole goddamn point.
You could be a fool. Save the scraps for you. Make pencil cores to draw your heart’s contents out. Bu sticks in the sand work just as well. And to not burn Charcoal is to waste the energy you first put in. A self-defeating act in and of itself. Throwing effort to a weak wind. No point. Better to use what we have and not complain when it’s through.
I think I am burning through what I wanted of you.
In the end, with the ash we can make lye. And with some fat skimmed off our sides, we can make soap to wash our faces off. Our hands can be clean in the suds of what we’ve done.
Wait, what? We? Us?
Oop. No, I just mean “me”, “I”. There is no “you” to make the plurals out of any more.
Funny… Nihongo doesn’t differentiate between one and many things. What does that mean? I think I am going to learn.