Behind

I wonder how many times I'll grieve you. I never told you this, but the memories that hurt the most, the ones that I can barely stand to touch, are the ones in which you made me happy. I don't understand why you would do this to me. Why is it that this is the time you seem to have chosen to leave me? I remember when we used to talk everyday, and you would show me the most beautiful things, books and ideas and the absolution of cool grass beneath me at sunset. I told everyone about you. Anyone I thought would listen. Not just the outlines, "you did this, and are like this, and are planning to..." the self-conscious and flat resume we generally use to introduce you, but the personal stuff. The little miracles and joys of loving you. Each unexpected flash of sunshine or moment of clarity or feeling of comfort at the back of my head proof that you loved me too.

Now I find that I've gone beyond you. Beyond my memories of you. The world opens in this absolute space. An open stage, more than a stage, an infinite space in which everything I dismissed, everything I gave up to follow you, springs to life, whirligigging and spiraling in its quiddity, its undeniable vitality, and I can't go back. I want to say that I want to find you, but I don't think that's how this works. I think you're behind me. I don't like it.

Don't turn around.