You say: You’ve been gone a while.
And then I say to you: I know. I’ve had to be away.
You ask: Is this about me?
I pause to think: Well, it’s about everything. And you’re a part of everything. It is a creating of…art, I guess. I don’t like that word art…for myself. Art is real. But it’s also unreal.
You get quiet. Because sometimes you’re quiet: I feel like I’ve been doing all the work.
I interrupt: Well, I miss you. That’s work. And before you did all the work, I did a lot of the work.
I say: I got…tired.
You are still quiet.
I say: Sometimes, when I’m on the train, I want to wrap my arms around a person and hold them until my stop comes. I don’t do it. But sometimes I really, really want to. Not every person. Just some people. And the people are always different. Maybe if I actually did it, it wouldn’t feel as nice as the wanting of doing it. The wanting of holding a stranger on the train feels magical. But I am living in me. They are living in them. It might not be so magical for them.
Then I ask: Haven’t you ever stopped yourself from doing something you really, really want to do?
You don’t answer. Because sometimes you don’t answer.