“Tell me about your synesthesia.”
As first lines go, I don’t know which is worse
(when I typed it then or now)
but you answered and could be
reading, so
it was something.
It was really, truly, something
the way mere weeks (with you) erased decades of knowing
so little pretending to be so much about
love.
It’s the word I don’t think
I’ll ever get to say
and the one thing we can both agree on,
still, is that there is no great physician for this
costectomy:
This isn’t for appearances, or medical emergency.
There is no insurance to cover the loss
of self. Without rhyme or reason, knowing you was
letting you inside.
How does one even do this? Remove that
which has been grafted, in, throughout, but…let’s call it
simply a rib.
Were there anyone to help with this (I’ve read),
they’d enter through the back—make an incision near the spine,
cut—stab–break—what floats
(is this what you meant, Emily? When you wrote
of Hope?).
I’m sure you’re calling it vanity. I’m sure you’re shaking your head.
I’m sure there is no chance (left) of you seeing it as anything but my fault.
But you can be sure of this: It’s my choice. This is elective.
Not the procedure or the path I would have chosen, not since you
first replied to an understated request for attention, a sad
attempt (on my part) at starting something—a conversation, first—and then
more.
The “more” I believed could grow.
The “more” I yet believe.
The “more” that does not come
in the messages that are not sent.
The “more” I had to cut from my body
blood of my blood; flesh of my flesh
to survive.
