Opacity

I pause.
He is waiting for me to respond.
Waiting for me to reassure him.
I try saying all the wrong things.
Because all the right things sound foreign on my tongue.
They sound like consolation for his efforts.
A second place trophy for a two player race.
The wrong fits all too well into this conversation.
The one about tomorrows and perfection and puzzle pieces.
I wear masks.
Translucent to a degree.
I tell him he will never get past a certain opacity.

Quiet.
Not his fault.
He doesn’t know how to react to walls,
the kind made of sponges.
Absorbing Saturday nights and
tv marathons and
the way he held my hand.
But they never break.
Never come down.
Once pushed they may flood the nearest vacancy of an open heart
but thats not the same as opening,
welcoming him inside.
I try to summarize.
Pretend a single sentence can explain.
Here goes,
“You see me stationary,
but I am cartwheels, I am the wind, I am simple and complicated and trying,
but you’re still stuck on yesterday girl.”
I pause.
He rolls over.
And that’s the last goodnight I hear.