I cannot take you with me where I'm going, nor do I really think you'd want to come. Your heart is here, somewhere between Pennsylvania and Brooklyn. I have never been to Brooklyn. This is a sign.
I made you say it yesterday. It was a low blow, I know, but it was irresistibly simple. Three words are simple to form in the back of your throat, to push forward and let roll off your tongue like wine pouring into a glass. You will gesture for me to pass it, take a sip, and exhale, satisfied, before passing it back. I will be so enraptured by this banal gesture that I will forget where your lips touched the plastic.
The words were what I wanted to hear, but they were too much and not enough and I honestly don't think they could be healthy no matter the inflection in your voice.
Distance will be useful, but only up to a point. Air cannot be seen but is still so vital. One does not have to consciously think about air to be inextricably attached to it.
Still, there is air, and then there are those things which you cannot, should not want and must banish from your mind that still manage to root themselves deep in your being, growing up from somewhere near the bottom of your stomach. I have taken these roots, ripped them unceremoniously from myself, and stored them in a desk drawer underneath story outlines and construction paper. This particular drawer has always insisted upon not closing. This is a sign.
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