It has occurred to me that if something were to happen to you, I would no longer be able to move. I can see it like in a comic book strip. Each second would stretch, sketched into a long inky strand of something trying to pull me away from the last moment you knew me, but I’m trusting the artist to use graphite or something heavy in their hand to draw me in grief. A shadow behind me so dark, so void, I can carry it with me, anchoring me to our togetherness. Because what if I was able to walk away with slow heavy footsteps, getting lighter each day. What if I succumbed to time and its ravaging inability to not change, what if I let myself do things that you would have loved or hated or been proud of or had feelings about that I could never guess because I would not be there to show you and you would not be there to tell me. Maybe Jesus did not ask for the stone to be rolled away. Maybe the stone that is known is the safe place and if the artist is to do an honest portrayal of the stone in the way I would like, the pen would need to tear through the paper, create a gash, keep going, carving down through the desk and its many drawers, gouge the tile and dig for the deepest blackest earth to even find a shade that would accurately depict the contrast, the relief, the sharpness I would need for my grief.

That reminds me, maybe what I fucking hate about memory the most is that it’s immovable where as you are always changing

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