When I was younger, I could always tell when I was going to catch a cold.
I would feel something thick seeping at the back of my throat, making it itch uncontrollably. I would use my tongue to reach the roof of my mouth, in order to get rid of the itch. I would scratch my ears, the outside of my neck – shake my head with immense insanity to get rid of the uncomfortable sensation. But nothing would work. I could never get to the source of the itch.
Your presence in my life is a lot like that.
Your arms, thick and inescapable, seep across my body, securing me next to you. Your fingers tracing my spine send goosebumps up and down my arms and I recoil in repulsion. I try to push you away, as we’re sprawled together in a heap of messy ignorance and oblivion.
Why do I feel this way?
Is it because you’re an impenetrable wall, with layers of cement and brick that bruise my unarmored entity as I try to break through?
Is it because when I’m with you – your breath making its way into my hair, your scent intertwining with skin, and your body awkwardly trying to interlock itself with mine – all I want to do is take a shower to rinse every bit of you off of me?
Or is it because when you’re around – closer than anyone else has been – I feel lonelier than I ever have before?
Like the thick, seeping feeling at the back of my throat, you’re unreachable. It’s impossible to comprehend you, to coexist and to be at ease.
More than that, I fear, is the fact that you’re an itch I’m a little too used to.
So I use my tongue, scratch my ears and shake my head from time to time. Perhaps, I’ll learn to accept you as you are. Or perhaps, one day, you’ll just stop itching.