Sometimes you hold my hand and tell me you'll never let go, as if you were afraid that if your hands left mine that the tide would rip me away and I'd drown in this sea of separation and loneliness.
I don't think that you know I was born with gills, that I've been breathing loneliness for years, and that I'm holding my breath every moment I'm with you.
Maybe you don't realize that I've been drowning ever since that first night when you smiled at me, and our hearts clicked together like magnets. Maybe you don't understand how far out of my element I am.
I've always lived my life within strict confines. My heart rarely left my chest. You refuse all my rules, pull my heart away from me and force me to love you.
And I know that you don't care half as much for me as I do for you, as I watch your fingers dance over ivory piano keys, wooing me with love songs written for other girls. Every word you've ever said to me belongs to someone else.
Your heart is going to rip mine apart, tear it to shreds and then offer it back again, claiming innocence and ignorance and smiling that smile that drives all thoughts from my head. I'm losing the battle against reality, living for those moments when the world tilts off its axis and I'm in your arms again.
My gills have sealed up, and ducking beneath the waves is painful for the first time in years. I need you to breathe, to live. This we both know, but only one of us cares.
"What would I be without you?" you ask. Oh, you'd be better off, as would I. Every motion we make spells out tragedy beyond either of our comprehensions, but we ignore it stubbornly as we dance around the issues.
I think the most truthful words we've ever spoken linger between the strings of my guitar.
The only time I feel safe is in your passenger seat, your laughter draped like a blanket around my shoulders. We could drive forever and need nothing else. You are the air I breathe, and sometimes you pretend that I'm your's. We could pretend forever, and it would go on and on until we both vanished into the lyrics of the songs you play over and over again on your battered radio.
You could come back when you want, you know that I'd be here. Maybe I should tell you that, instead of just whispering it into the windowpane as I watch you depart through the fog. I feel my heart stretching, breaking as you leave.
I've been balanced on the edge of this rooftop, looking down for months and months. I can't even see if you're still waiting to catch me. But somehow I drag air into my tattered lungs, listen to my feeble heart pound blood into my ears, and I take that first step, letting wind mingle with my fears as I hope to whatever god I believe in that you're waiting to catch me.
