People speak of meaningless past lives. They speak of voids they never knew existed. They speak of the one who filled these craters like no one else could. Me, I speak of all the wrong doors I've taken and the right ones I've neglected. Swinging doors, creaking doors, door frames all too wide. He speaks of all the places pieces of his worn out soles are now left behind- places in other people's hearts and places he loses himself in whenever he reads. We speak of our dreams. We speak of our fears and we speak nonsense. We speak the words which linger on the curls of our lips and hang in the air cycling between his lungs and mine. We speak the words we actually never say.
I was whole then as I am whole now. Him? He was no-assembly-required, and self-satisfaction guaranteed. Fate just happened to turn her head by chance when we stumbled through the same motel door. My suitcase was full of souvenir knobs and his shoes, though worn, had no holes to be filled anyway.
So maybe one day we'll find this room we share too empty, go off to find different exits, and leave with everything we came with. I speak only the truth. He is my complement. He is not my completion. But I'd be a fool if I said I'd walk out this room the same woman I was when I came. No. I'd walk out that door a better woman than I'd ever be if not for him.
And so, I speak of bravery. Motel room or not, I've already unpacked my bags next to his unlaced sneakers. It'd be nice to settle in here a while longer.
