you only made sense to me because you were in pain. i don’t think i would even want you whole. and what does that say about me? the other day i found myself missing your pain, like i wanted to lay down in it and wrap it around both of us. like last summer when we could fuck inside it and pretend the fucking was not a wound, but a blessing. or maybe it was. maybe it was both. if i wouldn’t want you whole, would i want myself whole either? if i am not trying to replace something, do i even want to be with anyone? there is the fucking, though. a new kind of missing. it wasn’t as much pleasure as the absence of pain. i’d forget as soon as it stopped so i want it all the time. why couldn’t i stop your pain, too? why did trying add to mine? if love is not trauma i don’t trust it. i am looking inside the blue for answers but perhaps this is just not my color.