It’s not really something I can share, is it? Because they feel it. Visible in their eyes, urgent text messages, twirling of the hair. How do you communicate an ache originating from the darkest depths of your soul? I can tell myself that it's the time, the place, not the right people– but who are the right people? I imagine they’re locked away in some version of the future, waiting for me to follow the right path, say the right things, all in order to unlock the privilege.
The veins that go over the bones and push against the back of my hand pump blood to my heart so it can beat beat beat, but it is not thumping in the way I want it to. Need it to. The keyboard is the only place that knows the pain, the press of sorrowful fingers against fading keys. The only way out is to wait. Tick tick tick as I watch the clock. Waiting is my only option.
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