by Elizabeth Board
You're the most handsome felon I know. Your tragedy is what makes you attractive to me. How completely threadbare you are, how wrecked and wretched. You're so desperate to hold onto something that you'll even grasp onto my fractured body in some sort of magnetic pain-to-pain attraction. This right here – it really is an addiction. Our love - a replacement for the dope that was killing you. All I am is a new drug and one that you can't mainline, at that. Our stories lately have been shortened to only a line or two -just a couple sentence synopsis of days and hours that are nothing but a blur. We pass our time is bliss unable to grasp that weeks, days and months are measures of time. Last night I was leaning up against the wall outside the church because like hell either of us were going to go to an NA meeting after our separate hellish groups. You leaned in and kissed me, gently mumbling into my hair "I love you," and I made some joke in response. You gripped my shoulders, leaned closer and burrowed your eyes into mine, "No, I really really love you," and all I could say was "I love you too," How do I show you that I love you more than he can imagine? How do I make you trust in my words? We've become addicted to each other and I shake when you're not close. I am very much in love. I am very much in a constant, blissful state of infatuation. I have found someone who's like me and who can help me see the flaws in myself. We're a perfect match of deeply emotional and terrified youths. We have the same fears, the same loves and the same fascinations. We are bound together by our never ending pain and ceaseless inner turmoil.
I wonder if you could fall father – I'm sure, if you tried.