The proof of something always matters more than its existence, these days.
I promise you, I’ve not spent this life serving for nothing.
I am my body’s proof.
I prove it exists, it hurts, it survives. Sometimes, I even prove it lives- which is more than anybody’s done for anyone else.
Love is also when one person offers to be another’s proof. A claiming of bodies not your own. Naturally, we fall into it.
(To fall for someone is an act of passion. To fall for something is an act of stupidity.) Nothing is ever a coincidence.
Some times I think it’s the greatest human achievement that we can fall in love with the absence of things. This lack of sound, of people, of time. The lack of thought when I kiss you. Spaces between words, letters. Things unsaid, unheard.
Negative matter defying our laws, taking up space.
How I live this safe distance from my body, but never far enough to love it.
Loneliness, I hear, is the only reliable currency these days. Won’t you trade with me?
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