There is a void in me. A black hole, absorbing the light and all other things that come near.
He promised to fill this void with motorcycle rides and great walks. Yet on our date, he logged his fingers into the fissure in me and tore it wider. Leaving me feeling raw, cut open like a cadaver.
All the excuses and failed words to explain what I was feeling after paying for more than my half of a meal that he finished eating when I lost my appetite. What I was feeling was the loss of hope. The infection of hopelessness spreading wider through me.
I needed to get out. To be alone. So I could die a little more inside in peace. Without being told who I should be.
I stayed because you offered me a ride home. When I was dying inside, you still wanted to be around me. Of course, you had just come home from snowboarding and your car was chock-full of gear. As you hurried to clear the passenger's seat you dropped a home mix CD in the gutter. Hastily, you recovered it from the filth of the gutter; something so prized and meaningful to you that it can not be left there a moment longer. City and Colour. We love that band and I insist you play it on the way home.
Silky songs seep out of the speakers making the journey down Tamaki Drive feel smooth; in slow motion. As we pull into the car park, I feel unready to leave the car. Transfixed by the tones. We race to recline the seats. Street lights become makeshift stars in our Auckland skyline. For a minute I am home in California; reclined under an infinite starry night, stitching my wound with music and space.
These were the nights I lived for. Driving down unlit canyon roads. Only our favorite songs on streaming from the speakers because we were the DJs. Cruising down PCH, salt-water air filling our lungs. Words were useless, choruses carried the cure. Our hearts heavy burden but on these nights we were not carrying them alone.