you'll asked me how I knew, and I never have, and those are words that haunt me in a place both sacred and entirely exposed. I often wonder if other women are certain of their steps. if there's some switch that flips, like a gas tank, or a carousel ride coming to a close. perhaps they hear a song I've tuned out, or a warning beetle crawling about beneath their floorboards, and so they can be certain that it is simply over.
I don't suppose I knew it began. I woke up in the thick of it, and snuck, crept about the space which housed it, and tiptoed quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping giant in the next room - my fear that it might disappear from my grasp. and so I shushed my heart and clasped my hands tight to keep from screaming, and remained, until I found myself standing on the other side of love. from across the street, the bridge, the track from love I could see its edges clearly and this misshapen thing was not my own.
see, you'll ask me how I knew, and I will have nothing but silence to offer, for I didn't know, and that was enough. or not. oh, child, I craved certainty. not knowing became the reason. questioning love is a dangerous, dark burrow in which to live, and I could no longer guess at forever.