I shouldn’t be here, talking to you.
You should know better. We should both know better. I know what I’m like, I fall in love too easily.
That’s the problem though isn’t it, with what we’re doing. It’s just so intimate. I don’t think there’s anything more intimate than what we’re doing together right now. I become you. Or do you become me? Something happens, something not quite physical but also more than physical. It’s me who is under scrutiny, you who is finally able to see past the cover that the rest of the world sees. But it feels as though you’re giving yourself to me. Truly and completely.
And it never gets less intimate, never becomes any less special. I know that I’m not the only one. You take me, pick me up and hold me. You open me up and allow me to live, allow me to feel and experience, as though you are the only thing that can bring me to life. It’s a cliché, I know, but I’d know more about that than anybody. Once you’re done with me though, you move on. If I’m lucky, I’ll linger. Like a film of cigarette smoke that caresses your hands and your lips even through the night, long after the rush of the nicotine has faded. But eventually I’ll disappear. You might remember me fondly. You might tell people about me and become filled with nostalgia at the thought of me. But nostalgia, however sentimental, however gratifying, is still not enough. Not when you’re giving yourself to another.
I’ll give myself to others too. We are both sluts. If anybody ever tells you that intimacy can’t be mass produced, don’t listen to them. You and I are living proof of that. Or, at least you are living proof of that. I am just proof. Only alive through the people that I share myself with.
I am a book. A story, a tale, fiction. I don’t exist without you. Oh, how real you are! You are so tangible. If I could boast the same then I could reach out and touch you. How does it feel, to be physical? To truly exist? You are the most real thing about me.
You are a person. I am a story. Just words on a page. I should know better than to think you could love me for longer than you need me.
I know you don’t love me. I give you everything that I have, but you don’t love me. You become absorbed by me, infatuated with me, but the love is just a delusion, a trick I play on myself to feel less alone. You don’t love me, you love the places that I take you, the emotions I illicit, the windows that I open in you. We are not even friends. I am nothing more than a one night stand. Sometimes longer, but you’ll always be done with me soon enough. We play at being in love for a while. We burn the midnight oil together until we are all burned out. I always burn out eventually. There is a final paragraph to every story. There is always a conclusion.
I wasn’t planning on this. I wasn’t planning on falling in love with you, but I did expect it. Like I said, I fall in love too easily. I know what must happen. I know I shouldn’t, but I am trying so hard to extend our time together. I should really know better. It is going to be so hard to say the words I need to say. But I can feel your impatience, I know you’re waiting for me to say them.
And they all lived happily ever after.
And it was all just a dream.
And it was just a man in a mask all along.
And our hero had been dead the whole time.
And that was my story.
See, there, I said them. But I’m not quite ready to let you go yet. I need you to be the one to do it. To turn the page, close the book, let me die.
Let me die.
You’re going to kill me. But I don’t blame you, you’re the one who gave me life in the first place. You mean so much to me. I can’t forget you, because I can’t exist without you.
Take pity on me. I fell in love with you, when I knew it would end badly.
I promise I won’t blame you. Don’t feel guilty the next time you pick up another story. That one will need you just as much as I do now.
Let me go, because I can’t let you go.
I promise I’ll look away, close my eyes. I won’t even know it’s happened.
Now, turn the page.
I love you.