“You have a siren-like effect on me.”
“Good thing you’ve also got a self-preservation instinct.”
Actually I’d had no idea. They’ve always got this air about them when they leave, as though they’ve turned their gaze to the next thing and are striding purposefully towards it. Instead, it turned out to be a glimpse of the discipline it takes to tear themselves away and handle necessary tasks.
The amount of time we’ve spent ruefully sharing feelings we’d thought were obvious is significant. Two people, both assuming the other is far less invested, trying to avoid appearing too eager.
The previous night they’d referred to me as the center of gravity.
There’s a mountain of comments stashed somewhere in my brain, some accusing me of behaving like the center of the universe, others going to far as to call me a goddess. This gravity metaphor felt like neither. It felt like a refreshingly appropriate way to romanticize a human, from earth.
A humanizing glorification, if you will.
There’s a terrifying responsibility that comes with being an important part of someone’s life. To disappear abruptly is to cause pain. Non-matching speech and actions stirs up fears related to attachment.
Withholding emotions or life events says things, like a speech act does, and sometimes the things said are not what we mean. We communicate so much with our bodies and our silences.
(And I’d rather be a fish-woman or part of physics than a myth or an astral feature.)
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