It was twice I sat there and looked in your eyes and saw the insurmountable pain you carried. We're not counting the times I had to watch you practically dragged to my vicinity, as if you were being tortured, every muscle rigid, bracing for a blow from the hideous monster hiding behind me I'm sure. Or maybe I was the hideous monster in your eyes. Hideous monsters seem to be all around nowadays.
No, it was assuredly twice that pain broke into me, like shards of debris from an explosion. I didn't look away out of shame for anything I had ever done or not done, I looked away to protect myself, though the damage was already done. The damage was permanent. You didn't ask me over out of love. You asked me from the depths of sorrow, the warm fuzzy buzz of a drink to curb your fear. I am an obligatory stepping stone on your way to recovery. You called me over to point fingers and to assign blame. You wanted me to see your wounds. You wanted me broken, but NOT as broken as you.
I remember those lonely arms holding me. I was so happy and you . . . you were still hanging on to those ghosts.
I imagine seeing you again under so many different circumstances. In some scenarios we speak and I reply with quip, hurtful, sarcastic remarks. In some I immediately recant and further apologize. In others, I stare you dead in the eye, poker face on. In most we exchange niceties and then I simply walk away.
In the end, as each day goes by and I try to get some sleep, I find myself asking the question, "What does any of it matter anyway?"
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