Having so much, wanting so much, fearing so much

The cold beeping of his answering machine keeps ringing through her ears. Communicating is like a intricately rehearsed dance these days; she takes a step forward, he moves back; he reaches out for her and she steps away. The distance is always there, increasing and decreasing with an irregular rhythm as he changes jobs and she writes stories. He's sorting numbers and she's creating headlines, always in a different city, a different time, a different path. On her lap is another of his letters - she's been in the city long enough for his words to reach her address, but not long enough to feel welcome here, not long enough for the streets to stop feeling strange, cold.

Her hand grips tightly around the phone as her eyes pierce into the wall of her hotel room. The mini bar is empty and she wonders how much more she can take. Shakily she inhales. Shuts her eyes. And then she tries to let it all go, fearing that if she stops, it'll go away, she'll never find the words again, never find the courage, the foolish momentum driven forth by tiny bottles of Jack Daniels, gin, and the chain of thoughts only conjured forth by the 4 AM darkness.

"Hey. I'm in our city now. Where we met. It's strange here, without you, after all this time. I'm lost. And I just want to tell you I love you. Even though I cannot be sure if it’s love. Even though I cannot be sure the one I know, is truly you. When you write, you only show a glimpse of who you are. A raw flash of your soul, yes, but you are so much more, we are so much more. We are the bodies we move in, the voices we talk with, the connections only felt by the heart as we stand inches apart.

Do we connect? Will you look at me as the trees whisper lullabies in the night, as the sand hushes the waves washing up on the shore, will you look at my silhouette in the dark and lose your breath because I am all that keeps you sane, balancing you on the edge of a blade between pain and pleasure, sanity and delirium? Will you? Will I sit next to you on the subway and ache, ache, ache to take your hand in mine, merely because it is your hand, because it’s there and it’s close and it’s you. Will you watch me from a distance and feel your heart burst as you notice how I scrounge my nose when I laugh, or how I hug my arms around me when I’m insecure? Will I secretly stare at your back as you’re browsing through magazines at the store, will I feel that knot in my stomach as I look at your feet peeking out from the sheets on a Sunday morning, that feeling of having so much, wanting so much, fearing so much that it’ll be gone with the next breeze, the next train, the next blink of an eye?

Will I?

I don’t know. And yet I think I love you."

Silence is roaring in her ears as she's watching the phone, knuckles white as she clenches her fists shut around the cold plastic. Oh fuck. Shaking, she tries to steady her breathing, her racing heart. The cold beeping of the answering machine mocks her again, and the knot in her stomach feels heavy, dark, as she realizes she won't say it this time either.