I can feel my muscles stiffening to keep away from you. The impetus to let go and the fear of pain are opposing forces, much like the heart and logic are usually at odds.
There is something inside me that shrinks away from being seen or touched, because to see it or touch it opens a path to pain. Of this pain I am very much afraid. But something residing near that quiet, twilight place is diving, spinning towards the gravity of you all the same.
I ask myself if you are worthy of touching that tenderest of palimpsests with your blunt fingers and staring eyes. If you have enough poetry inside you to read and love the things I hold sacrosanct.
I ask myself if I am worthy of being touched by fingers that hurt and soothe, if I am beautiful in those eyes I avoid like a split in the fabric of the world.
I don’t know.
I find myself diving, falling towards you all the same. Feeling almost sorry that the terrible pain I will feel when you inevitably drop me could permeate you as well, that you will feel the curse deepen, and reproach yourself for my pain, for being unable.
But then there is a part of me that suspects you wouldn’t even try to catch me, a suspicion that keeps me taut and straining to fly, mid-fall.
I could get over one, but not the other.