One Year

It is too painful to write these words; therefore, these thoughts will reveal themselves to you while I sleep.

The bed is big enough for three, but lately it only accommodates one. I see the silhouette of a dark-haired woman standing in the doorway. She is familiar to me. She moves closer and I see her in more detail. Yes, I know her, but her eyes belong to someone else; to a wounded inner child.

This woman highjacks my mind and tells me to relax. Our worlds implode and I spiral towards the centre of her anguish. Somehow she has managed to manifest in me what belongs to her. I am burnt and my strength begins to weaken in the heat of responsibility. The woman smiles when I reach out and hold her troubles in my heart. I always seem to touch those things that hurt me the most.

This woman tries to convince me that I would never reach joy without her. She is broken and I find shards of bitterness imbedded in my insecurities. I roll over in my sleep and face the other way. I feel her hooks of burden release me. I open my eyes to see the sunlight filter through my heavily-draped windows. I am no longer interested in the promise of happiness because I would rather live it now.

A voice in my head tells me that the distance between the earth and the sun is eight minutes at the speed of light.

A child tells me that the distance between heaven and hope is instant.

An adult tells me that the distance between me and hell is one year of marriage.

When I wake up, I will tell you that we were something special to someone else, but never to each other.