Soul One
by Cody

He told you, when he showed up at your door that night, empty-eyed and still so much of everything you had to shove your hands into your pockets to keep from touching him. He told you that he was leaving; warned you.

Had it all except what he needed, he said, and you knew what he meant but you were too scared to admit it. You acted surprised when you found yourself beneath him, mumbled that you shouldnít and he said, ďI know, I know,Ē but neither of you stopped.

And then afterwards, held close in strong arms, feeling like youíd finally found the place youíd been searching for all your life, you still didnít say anything. You closed your eyes and let him think you were sleeping, stayed silent as he spoke of loneliness, apologized and thanked you, said he felt like he was dying. You just listened, waiting for his breaths to even and deepen, and told yourself that youíd save him in the morning.

When you woke up you thought maybe it had been a dream, because you were alone. Vague panic under it all, because you knew it hadnít been a dream. Dreams didnít leave bruises. Still, you waited.

Studio time, and when the others asked if you knew where he was, you said no. He wasnít picking up his cell. No one answered at his house. Everyone was scared, and so were you. Because he was gone, and because of what youíd let go.

Never got a chance to say goodbye, you think about that whenever you take a break from feeling sorry for him to feel sorry for yourself. You try hard to hold onto the memories, keep them vibrant. How he felt, how he filled you, but itís fading. Countless letters placed carefully, desperate to shape words just right, to sculpt a lasting sense of him. But itís not enough, never enough.

You want to learn other languages, every language. Maybe itís some deficiency of English, that it canít describe him. You spend hours at the piano, trying to find him in music. Youíve taken up painting, hoping art might let you capture it. But the knowledge rests in the void in your heart that no medium will ever suffice. Imitations wonít ever form Life.

You lost everything, and itís your fault alone, because you opened your hands and let it go. So cry, for all the difference it makes. Go ahead and cry.


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