I sit next to a girl who is not my love, and I am beholden for no reason other than she is here in front of me. We talk about the ‘nothings’ strangers talk about. That spark of fear welling from the depths. All that you think of me crumbling between my fingers, my compass shaking about True North.
The girl who is not my love is pretty, her long pitch-black hair tightly drawn back. Her lilted smile, and those thin limbs curled around one another as we exchange stories, pretending to be fascinated by various twists and turns.
She’s not you, but she’s here, not two days’ worth of flying away. I’m not interested in her the way I am in you. I know I don’t care about what she does, or of what she dreams, not as with you.
A small fact, a minor obstacle in our shared reality, but at times a seemingly insurmountable one. I never worried about physicality before I met you—before you taught me to love your touch, before I learned the unique sensation of your delicate skin beneath my roughened fingertips, your undressed back pressed against my front, our feet caressing each other, the length of our legs snaking all the way down.
I want it again, desperately, but I want it with you, not with this girl who is not my love. Resolve strengthened, I bid my farewells, and quietly depart. The long stumble home reminds me of the singular nature you have unleashed in me:
Mein Fleisch ist schwach aber du machst mein herz stark und es gehört dir, meine Leibe.
