He Visited

He visited. Made an appearance, if you will. Emerged as he had done many times before, & for the very same reason. It wasn’t because he wanted me, or missed me. He missed the burning desire, the way it made him feel like a man, the way it reminded him that -still - after the years, he still could come back & find a home.

He left one day & he has left 100 times since. The first time, it destroyed me. In fairness, I think it destroyed us both. We were both children caught in each others crossfire & instead of finding solace in each others arms, we became wary of closeness. Like children of war - but of a different kind - we begin to wince at it. Vulnerability begin to sound a lot like incoming pain, like the silence that penetrates the skies before a whistling bomb begins to fall. War ravaged hearts lay asunder, a line in the sand divided our reaching arms by continents.

& so he visited once. Twice. Over & over again, in different spaces in time as the months & years had passed.

The last time he visited, I lay ready for the leaving. It didn’t break my heart. It barely ached, even. I’d gotten accustomed to the sudden disruption that comes with his visits. He would lay a blanket in my heart, the same way he would when we loved each other; Lay it out on the balcony, light some candles, cook some dinner, pour some wine…….hold me close & then stand up unhurriedly, emotionless, as if he was telling me he was going to grab fresh silverware & then walk away.

It became laughable in its predictability, but each time, the predictable thing would happen: I would be okay. So it stopped bothering me. The more he left, the more that his shadow was removed from above me, the clearer things became.

Who is this man, I thought? He looks like him. His arms feel like him. His lips taste like him. But this isn’t him. There was a vapid emptiness in him that vortexed unrelentlessly most selfishly. A hungry boy sat within, wincing still from a war long since passed, & I had wanted to bandage him up, tell him the stories of life before the war, give him hope for a future without the bombs that had pierced us both with shrapnel & disillusion but we used to hold the weapons, he & I. What else is there to expect when you loved who hurt you?

So he visited, & it was the last time. It felt good to say hello. It felt good to say goodbye. Perhaps this is how the war ends. He can finally stop knocking. I can finally stop opening the door.