Jared Leto

I have crawled in my sleep somehow so that now half of my body is on his, my left side draped over his left side and my head and hand on his chest. There is a light from somewhere that paints the outline of his face onto the pillow, his hair like reeds in white water, our bed the ocean.
The sheets have tangled between us both and we have become tied together in a human knot that strangles us. I can feel the push and pull from him, his wanting to be here and then his wanting to be anywhere else.  
The tide comes in and the tide goes out.
In the blackness of our room I feel his tears pool in the palm of my hand.
He is drowning.
I pretend I don’t know.

It is tomorrow and outdoors has bled through the window and our room is sticky and golden and it is spring and it feels like winter. He is at the end of our bed in a chair covered in orange flowers that I think are daisies. I want to tell him how to be here but I don’t know. Sometimes you just are and the love is enough.
Sometimes it is everything.  

I climb out of our bed and my body is heavy as wet sand and I feel his eyes on my neck as I make my way to the door. The light shivers and I turn back towards the window.
There is a moment when I look at him and he looks at me and the tide comes rushing in and we are wading again through water that is all at once both familiar and startlingly new.
And then it is still. And he is still. And so is the light. And I am all that is moving; moving towards the chair covered in orange flowers that I think are daisies. Every step I take is a step to be closer to where he is. Always.
I sit across his lap and rest my forehead on his and my hands are half circles over his ears.
He is here and I am here, weary together in a room that is sometimes filled with water.
He cries into my mouth and I eat his grief until it is gone.
It is all either of us can do.