Not Falling Until You Look Down

The air tonight smells like metal and smoke. It's raining and I've got the windows open to let in the breeze. Rain's running in the streets and there's a porch light flickering across the way, sending me morse code secrets in the dark.

He's an addict, is the thing. He's not a liar, but he's someone who lies. I don't know what it means when I say that I spent five years of my life loving someone who doesn't exist. It might be easier if I could hate him, but the only thing I feel is grief. And it's not dramatic or interesting, it's just tiring.

"Most people aren't like this," she says and I'm surprised by my surprise. When I imagine love, this is all I see. I'm not saying it to paint myself as a victim, because I'm not quite; I'm saying it because it's a pebble I found in my pocket and I can't stop rolling it between my fingers. When I imagine love, this is all I see. She cries when I say this and holds me tighter than anyone has in awhile. That surprises me, too.

I want to wrap this up for you. I want to give you something to walk away with. I want to tie a moral to this story, but I don't know what it is yet. One of the hardest things for me to remember, on this blog and in life, is that I don't have to know the answer before I ask the question. Sometimes getting it wrong is a step on the path to getting it right. There's bravery in taking a leap before you know if what you're wearing are wings.