I know his heart broke…and somehow, I looked at him that day suddenly saw the crack in his chest.
I saw its jagged edges, haphazard and reckless, that crack. Caring less about the tattered thuds that his heart made.
I sat there wondering about these species…these beings able to break members of their own races with such grace. The same grace they seek from their makers when coiled in redemption.
I saw the blinding stains scattered next to this crack. Crimson and corroded, those stains. I saw and knew that the silence from my lips was merely a stifled scream of recognition.
A scream that remembered what it was like to carry a heart that was barely held together by fragile fragments of a desiccated set of arteries.
I saw a heart that functioned to work, but not free to feel. A heart mauled and bleeding in a perpetual pool of unanswered questions.
I sat there and wondered about these beings that hurt hearts. If they wonder about who gets to piece together the flesh of ravaged souls… If they deserved redemption at the footstools of moral judgement.
I wondered if irremediable guilt soaked the fabric of their happiness when they thought of what they had done…
I know his heart broke…and it could no longer pump purity. I know this even as he smiled at me.
When I looked at his smile, it was filled with a wistful want, a wincing wish, a wretched regret. It hurt my heart to see it.
When he took my hand I wondered why the warmth from his fingers made me sadder than I have been in a long time. Not that sadness that comes from fatigue, or failure, or disappointment. A sadness that sapped the synonyms out of me.
I looked at my own fingers, I knew that sadness. I saw the traces of his essence…and I knew then that that warmth was marred by my empathy…my own recollection of pain. My certainty that even time may fail in its quest to un-break him.
I will be fine…he said to me in that voice. That quiet, sullen voice.
I knew that is just his gate pass to walking…to breathing…telling his heart to push on because eventually the grass on the road would be paved with hardened healing.
In the absence of love…there is no option.
There is only the panicked need to press on forward. There is only moving on. There is only making noise.
But I cannot block him out of my mind. I hate that I seem to be channeling him in order to access my gift of the garb. I hate that he seems to becoming my muse…because I do not possess the strength to tap from him. Pain and emotion cannot be bedfellows.
I hate that his hurt is a fortress that I cannot penetrate.
I hate that my gift introduced me to him…and it will take him from me.
I hate that I cannot forget the glowing heat from his hands when he laced his fingers in mine….that all I seem to remember about him is that.
I hate that I can’t remember what he wore anymore. What he smelled like.
There is something profane about our silences…
His louder than mine.
Something engulfing about how much I refuse to think about him.
Something volatile and vibrating about the clarity of the crimson stain that I saw through his cracked chest. It’s raging red seeping into my memories where it is now a calm resident.
Something twisted in the acceptance that he does not know this, does not know that I too worry about him. That I stand in the shadows and watch him carry on, charging on.
That he is a jewel whose price I can never afford. The kind of gem that you would get not to display on your body, but in a vault somewhere…too precious to accord nothing than the occasional viewing to valued guests.
Something frightening about knowing I do not want to see him again…because I’d rather run than be ruined by that crimson stain that has already permeated my mind.