Laid open. Bare. Exposed. Naked.
It’s as though the innards of the secret between us have been dissected, surgically exposed, a scalpel taken to us.
Reading over the electronic past, a realisation that nothing should have changed dawns upon me; an angry dark cloud, obscuring the hurt, exposing the pain. But it did. And it changed in an instant.
Words suspended in the electronic book of our lives tell a different story to the reality you described that day. The day the earth moved and shook; the day the zalzalah came, and you with it.
On the 26th July 2009 I wrote those three little words, etched them onto the wall, engraving them in with a metal file, hoping that they could not be erased. But the click of our fickle friend, the power held in a mouse click could take it all away. I remember you replied in kind, the very next day, not the same day, but the very next, as though cementing things between us. Words suspended in hyperspace were never to be relied upon, but we did. They hang there still, tenuously, as though on a dead tree, mocking.
There is nothing so big that words cannot fix. There is nothing too mountainous that words cannot climb, conquer and override. There is nothing. I believed that. But I was alone in my belief in the power of words, their power to heal, overcome and seal the wound with the curved way they hang in air above us, tangible utterances.
Words are all I have, write through everything.
