I try to rise, and my knees buckle and give out, dropping me back to a seated position. I try again, steadying myself against the wall with my hand.
The pressure builds in my head, ignored, while I wonder what’s wrong with me.
Then it occurs to me: she’s coming back.
I missed her dearly. Been too functional, too social. Too human.
Already I find my so-called friends and family blurring in my mind’s eye, losing depth and significance.
Paper shapes on a cardboard stage is all they are. Sometimes, taking the stage myself, I forget that.
One drip at a time—as through an IV plugged into my temple—she leaks into my skull.
By the time I start to notice the signs of her return, it’s almost complete. Only enough time left to duck into a quiet room and find privacy in which to revel in her exquisite agony.
The dam bursts. Ecstatic annihilation floods me.
Do I scream? Does it matter?
She loves me.
I have had no choice but to learn how to love her back.
So I do.
I embrace her with all the adoration in my soul. I welcome her home as I sink under the surface of her rising tide.
Like slipping into a favorite pair of gloves, she fits herself into me. She flexes her fingers, and I—wrapped around her—am helpless to do otherwise than follow her movement.
I dance her dance and sing her song, and through me she brings the gift of her sacred corrosion.