Moving Out
No eyes meet mine, there are no mirrors here
I am alone but I am home but I am not.
I am two hours or one conversation with you away from the house I grew up in, twelve from the one where I knew you, but you were stationed in my life exactly when I needed it, like a train taking me from a hub of chaos back to the quiet clamors of the concrete jungles.
The suitcase is half empty and it sits inches from my half open door.
Your voice still radiates in sound waves from the speakers of my phone and you listen when I explain how they could be graphed in hertz on a polar coordinate system but not on a cartesian one without the need for translation. And we talk about language, dative and genitive and accusative and nominative but no matter the grammar the math is universal.
If we were to graph this conversation my calling would be cosine and your answering wouldn’t be the inverse; we are a line tangent to one another so for that I am grateful.
I am grateful for the degrees we spend cycling through old memories, I am grateful for the sin waves from you, they ebb the sighs from my soul.
You tell me truths that I beg to hear, braved in the sense that you speak whilst scared, fearing I may crumble under the weight of your words.
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But your honesty has only ever been reciprocated with my loyalty. Still,
They hurt you to say but to me it is not painful.
It is shackles falling, it air under my wings, it is permission to see myself as angelic once more,
Free from chains, free from sin, free from the guilt and weight of caring too much for a person that cares too little to save you from their own cruelty.
Free from cyclical impressions, to surrender oneself from connection to a lonely heart,
Free to live. To move on.
Thank you.
Truely, deeply, from the bottom of my heart.
Thank you.
