willing that i let him in

two little lovely folded up notes. i am folding and unfolding and folded into your arms. the stage is a mess. props are scattered on the rough floor, cracked and brittle, and you are running around on it. you are so reckless, why can't you walk slowly? up the stairs to the flyloft and i am sitting cross legged, a pink tutu fastened around my waist. those two little lovely notes all folded up into triangular shapes are pressed into my palms as you cover my eyes with your hand. i look down and then look up and you are gone. you are never far from my thoughts. the notes read like a rambling mess and you have no point except the point is to have none. they go on for pages and pages and tell me nothing but everything at the same time. i see them as blank slates, a chance to repair whatever has been damaged, but they are not so pure. you are not pure. you are black and stripped down to this horrible red core. it's damaged and, somehow, i find that endearing. i want to reshape and repair that broken heart. i wanted to. no matter what sickly sweet words slide out of your perfectly shaped mouth, they are thick with heartbreak. in a stairwell, like children with secrets, you were there. we were a secret. it is a secret. all of it. secrecy hurts my soul. where is this soul, anyway? i think i lost it or never had it, maybe. when i think of you my body heats up and my stomach flips and my ears pound into the ground. we are secrets no more. those bunnies will hop into your lap but i suppose i won't. i suppose i will grab hold of my lovely TM and try to prop myself up again.