This isn’t like some song, and this isn’t any sort of story. It’s nothing, and that’s what it has to stay at, where it needs to stay. There isn’t even a flutter inside, no flipping or turning or up-ending. All there is, is this twisting and gripping deep in the pit of my gut, in muscles hidden from all other views and uses, where I can feel my pulse. They clench the way my teeth automatically bite my lip, the way I can almost feel my eyes dilate. I have no sweet words I want to say to you, and you have none for me—this doesn’t go that deep. It only goes as deep as blood flows, as deep as sinews and tissue.
Can you sense my throat tighten and my ribs warm just as I feel your heat when you step as close as a breath behind me? In a single-breathed, single-syllable greeting, the primal weight and single-minded driving need behind our last conversation (many words circling around the centre point) sank in right past my frontal lobe and higher-levels of thought processing and into the deep of my medulla oblongata. This is not complex, and this is not complicated. This is the very base of things, the very centre of dopamine and seratonin and endorphins. This is the nameless driving need, the pull back under the water of psychological evolution, and it laughs right in the face of culture and society. It is what drives all liquid, all fluids, pulls them back and pushes them out again. It’s that surge up your central nervous system and all things you can’t—and don’t want to—control.
Don’t say words to me, but use that power in your voice. The waves are in your vocal chords, and I am brine in the sea when you’re less than a foot away.