His name was Phillip

The boy left, hurtling forward until he was met by his right hand. My blond hair was streaked by his fingertips, and I softened with his blood. The towns, the cities, they flashed by, and we found ourselves back in the countryside, our knees brushed by trampled grass.

He told me he doesn’t seem to understand. That the grass here was different than anywhere else. Different than the ligaments of his own soul. 

I told him that that was his business. That however much I wanted, I could do no part to help. I wondered if it was true, that somewhere out in the world there was a body that leapt like mine, slept like mine, kept secrets like mine. That our hearts, clear like glass and filled with wind and hollow air, if woven together — over under, over under — could beat twice as fast.

He stood. I followed suit. Here, in my room, there, on that windswept knoll, we stood eye to eye. I wanted to ask if he thought

If he thought our minds only moved in one direction, and if he thought mine was going somewhere nice. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t care where it was going, as long as his was heading there too.

My lips are chapped from the air between us. It’s all too dry, too cold, and my nose is starting to bleed. To want and not to have. To want and not to have. Does he hear what I hear?

My mom knew someone named Phillip once. There was music in the space between them. Notes gifted, lyrics passed back and forth. He lives in Paris now. I don’t know the last time they saw each other. I don’t know where that music went. If it still plays from the dusty records in our living room.

It’s strange, that they’ve left each other, and we have yet to meet. Somewhere here, in both our bodies, hides a beginning and an ending. And everywhere else — the space between.

Whatever I am looking for, wherever we are going, this I have found.