For some time, I’d come across my love for you when I turned on the kitchen light suddenly at night.
It would startle me, not because it was large, but because I had managed to forget that it existed, and there it was, in the middle of the tile floor, bold as brass, unwanted.
It would then scuttle quickly, before I could move, to somewhere dark and secret, like the back of the refrigerator. But for a long time I would know it was there, so close, so small and yet somehow so invulnerable, and I couldn’t not think of it and what it was doing, unseen and so close.
And then I would forget, or pretend to forget, or pretend until I really did forget, and my love for you and I would exist in peaceful ignorance of each other, until I happened to turn on the kitchen light on a random night, and both of us would be ambushed again by each other’s presence.
That is no longer the case.
The kitchen light is always on now, and it shines into the darkest corners, and there isn’t anywhere left to hide.
This is true and not true.
It is true because I thought of it, one night when I turned the light on in my brain’s kitchen and found my love for you still there, unwelcome, persistent.
It is not true because there are no metaphors any more.
I have filled pages upon pages with words, filled them to brimming bloated excess, crissed and crossed lines of text when I ran out of room, turned them palimpsest by scraping the pages clean and writing the same patterns of words again, trying to capture my love for you, trying to pin it down with a needle through one of the thirteen chambers of its heart.
But these pages are now sodden and worn through and can hold no more, and there are no more pages to be had.
My love for you has been exposed, and there isn’t any hiding any more, under the fridge or in a journal or in imagery or in run-on sentences.
This is where it ends.