I want to get to a place where you don’t make sense anymore. Where I am dumb in the language to interpret or desire you. Where you become a book- -read and closed- -clouding characters within. The smear of ink between cotton pages, sealed together in the dark. Unreadable. Shelved.

Yet I see, for now, that you make sense and I do not.

So I search for this place where sight and sound of you are indistinguishable from noise. Unnoticed. Weightless. Where you may stand before me seen, without feeling. Close but not near, as you used to be. Not present or dear. Distant and past. A passerby.

This is the tragedy I wish for after tragedy: to unweave you, and return it to nothing.

I know this place exists. I am already there for others. I don’t understand them. I won’t remember them. I can’t recall them.

I’ll get there without you.