Between the two of us, curled together, there is the feeling of a large,
that was never there before.
Everything feels off—-the bed, the blankets, the pillows, even the air in the room.
Nothing has felt the same way that it did from the last time
but last time was weeks ago.
We both want to address the space.
But we say nothing.
We don’t really know what to say. We don’t want to hurt each other
but in every way we are aching.
They say that actions speak louder than words, but we are actionless.
Does that mean we are screaming?
If we can’t find the words to speak
or the actions to take,
are we silently,
passively yelling at each other?
I feel his heartbeat.
I’ve known him long enough to know the pace of his heart
the exact amount of beats per minute
like it is some sort of lyric to a song that I have on auto-repeat in my head.
But right now, it beats faster than its normal pitter-patter.
His heart, too, is silently yelling at me.
We haven’t spoken but he knows.
We both know.
The more I think through the silence
the more the space feels like dark cloud, looming over us
waiting for the most imperfect moment to rain on us
It’s daunting, the same way watching a tornado rip through a town is
We don’t know when it will rain, but we know it will pour soon.
And while we silently embrace the metaphorical gap between us,
I can sense us both realizing that this moment
is our last few seconds of happiness
with each other
before we let the thunder dance to its own beat
and change the entirety of the song we’ve been listening to
day in and day out.
In that realization, I’ve discovered, for the first time,
how comfortable I am with uncomfortable space
because I’m not sure if the space between us
or the cloud between us
will ever lighten again.
And I should get used to always feeling this way
after the storm passes through.