the art of loving you

sixty one.

my eyes sting.
i'm shivering.
i inhale and take a step closer.
on my exhale,
you've opened your eyes.
brown meets gray
and god,
how i've missed you.
but i'm speechless,
emotions clogging my dry throat,
but your lip quivers
and fingers shake
and a tear slips its way down your cheek.

"i'm sorry,"
you whisper,
and suddenly you're sobbing.
my cold hands lunge for yours
and i feel a pang of guilt
at the bandages brushing my fingertips.
you won't look at me
(this is my fault)
and i force myself to speak.
"gen, look at me.
gen.
please."
if your despair was tangible,
the world would break in two.

you gasp for breath through your tears,
and i stop breathing,
as if that would allow you
more oxygen.
(i've already taken enough away.)
when you're calmer,
i tuck a strand of hair
behind your ear,
and beg you to talk to me.
i want to say
i thought i lost you
or
i've never been more terrified
or even
damn it gen, i didn't know i had these feelings.
but i don't.

a single drop of blood
has bled through stark white cloth.
we both watch it.
"honestly,"
you mumble,
and your voice is numb,
"i reached the point where
everyone hating me
wasn't how i wanted to live.
and when your own mother hates you..."
you rub a stroke of warmth
into my hand.
"i couldn't take it anymore."
i wish i could've said
you could've come to me
but i didn't
because you couldn't.
i didn't love you either.

a tug on my hand
brings my gaze back to you,
and i can tell you know
what i'm thinking.
"please don't apologize, kat.
if you didn't care,
you wouldn't be here
or doing this."
this is me crying,
again,
so i sit quietly
and wonder if you are right.