Like A Polaroid Picture

I kissed the tattoo that sprawled across his shoulders and tried to remember what it was like to have that rock in the pit of my stomach, to have that gnawing desperation that this might one day end. Somewhere along the way I turned down the volume of my emotions, and I don't know how to crank them back up. He turned over and his eyes radiated passion, desire; I looked away because I knew my return gaze didn't match the intensity. That's a lonely feeling.

And I placate my fear partially by admitting that the only other one after Ryan was a total dud, that the experience taught me to not care, to be prepared to walk away at a moment's notice. Like marking time until a better one comes along. Except a better one came along and I don't feel much of anything, I still feel that I could move on two minutes from now. Part of being human is having weakness and vulnerability, being able to share that with another person. Down to go up and all that. There are tears on the precipice behind my eyeballs that I don't even share with Anne. I don't think that it's strength to have hardened my heart to the world. I think it's unhealthy, and I worry about what it's going to look like when something pokes through the crust.