Vienna

Childish. Stupid.

Last night feels heavy on my brain. Like he's sitting next to me still, smiling at me and tearing my heart in two. Like his hands are still where I wanted them to be so badly as soon as he walked in the door. We had sex. We always have sex. This sex felt different though. More rushed, more desperate to feel something we both knew we couldn't provide the other. The pain I felt wasn't from his grip on my throat, it was from the way he looked into my eyes.

Nothing hurts more than wishing for something that was once in your control and now never can be again. Nothing hurts like analyzing where things could've taken another path but I, so unwilling to open my eyes to reality, didn't allow them to. I always say I don't know what I want with Max. I know exactly what I want from him. I know just why I'm here. It's so simple and something no one can see. Our love is like that. They're blind and we can see.

He was calm at first, before I brought it up. When he called me drunk after the last fight and made sure I knew how he was feeling. I guess I had a part in how angry he got. I lost it and screamed at him to leave, but if I'm honest I don't know if he heard all of it over the lamp smashing.

Regrettably and unreasonably, glass on the floor filled me fear. I liked that lamp. Childish. I was scared he might hurt me. Stupid.

He wanted me to promise him I loved him more than anyone else, more than anyone I've ever known. That part was easy and honest. I do. I'm me for him. The hand around my throat felt like love again. Because after I told him how much I care for him with tears in my eyes we were in the bed and he held me down like he was considering not letting go. The tears came down harder then, I think.

Because nothing hurts more than wishing for something that was once in your control and now never can be again.

The sex didn't matter. He was inside of me in so many ways and most of those ways felt inescapable. Like even if I wanted to, I couldn't break the overwhelming connection between our hearts. I miss the determination we had when I was a little too young for him and he was a little too old. Against all odds, or something like that. Why is everything so fucked up? Why now? How long do I have to sink before he realizes he needs to pull me out? Even if I screamed out for him to rescue me, would he hear me? Or are the salty waves crashing around me too deafening?

A few nights ago was when I decided to start writing our story. We were laying together after I cried and we were talking about finding something for me to do with him for work. Except it sounded more like he wants me to accept his offer to quit our jobs and travel, I guess selling drugs all over the country. Of course I don't have to go. Though if I don't, he might go without me. I can barely handle how little I see him now.

No matter how tight our invisible rope is tied, it's never close enough. He could always be one step away from leaving, and I could always be one step away from dying. So I'm writing now. I'm making sure he doesn't go anywhere and I don't drown.

He left this morning, for the actual job, the one the government knows about. He said he had to meet up with some connects after. I gave up on wishing for his safety a while ago. It makes him angry that I worry because he doesn't understand, I know he can take care of himself. I just know I couldn't take care of myself if anything happened to him. Maybe that's selfish. Maybe I'm hopeless.

I'm overthinking. I can't breathe. I hope Max calls when he's done working. I'm really trying not to bother him today. I don't wanna overstep too much after last night. Despite my heart clawing for him like a starving cat for food, I will not call.

Last night was empty. No call until 10. I was drinking wine and watching a war documentary. The depression was unfathomable. When we finally spoke he said he got caught up with work and drops and I didn't ask, even though I thought that was a shitty lie, the same one he always tells.

     I know he's with other girls, I just can't bring myself to fight over it. From the start I hated how I was never the only one. I wanted him to be free and I wanted him to think I was okay with it. Different.

      He always told me I was different than the others. He told me that until I stopped asking. I know the teenagers he sells his drugs to want him. I know because I was them.

     He took me to the water again. He asked how looking at the waves made me feel. I told him the silver glimmer and shards of moonlight dancing in the air reminded me of the shiny parts of me I've lost. He didn't understand, how could he, and looked amused. He called me a poet which I thought was even more amusing. We laid on the bridge and listened to each other think while passing our joints.

     He dropped me off at home and didn't come up. I wanted him to come up and at least have a drink, if he couldn't stay. He pays half of the rent, after all. I was stupid for thinking he would. He never comes up anymore.

In all of the pain, all this does is make me want him more. All I can think about is how exciting it's gonna feel whenever I'm able to see him next. All he does is play our game. I don't know the rules, but maybe one day it'll all just click like fate, or maybe with repeated practice, like chess. Either way, I think his pull is stronger than any ocean's.

     The twisting, cold feeling is back. I feel like it's swallowing me. I might let it devour me, for some time. I'll sit in the belly of the beast and wait until it spits me back up. Sometimes, being depressed feels like hearing your favorite love song in a way you haven't been able to hear it since you first listened, but the person you attached it to is gone now. Like being alone in bed watching raindrops drip down your window and wondering if you're making it all up, but being affirmed by the unrelenting raindrops dripping down your cheeks. It's all real.

     Sometimes I sit and think about the beginning. Things were so different. I was so different. He was the same. I always loved him. Always itching to see him again, and not just for the drugs I needed from him. The way our hands would touch throughout the sale, passing me enough electricity to power my love for him until I could see him again. The little girl in me likes to dream that our hearts are connected somewhere else, somewhere beautifully simple that we can't visit from this world. Maybe it can never be that simple here.