Pompeii (thoughts on love)

He said: “Come see me sometime.”

If I had decided to answer, I would have said,

 “What I am has passed you.” 

He should have figured out by now that there is a space between us that will never close. It will always be air.

I wonder if it will always be this way. I can’t know now. I don’t want to.  

I don’t feel like a victim or survivor most of the time (I may be a chaotic mix of both.) 

&& I detest being in a world filled with twinkling narratives, forgiven exaggerations, and bedtime stories for little girls. If people look at me with pity or sadness I don’t notice, probably because I’m looking at them too. More closely. I have had to claw myself out of  hell and then out of myself again.

I feel like an unseen world. Something like Pompeii, the more hopeful and spirited parts of me under rubble, partially preserved, disturbingly observable, effectively useless.