Sorry, I'm Afraid Of Heights

      You gaze at me intently, not even attempting to get closer. The abyss is too deep, and we both know it. Impulsiveness urges to end it, common sense suggests getting in the car and speeding away along the endless road. Between us are obligations, stubbornness, and endless miles; there are no emotions, only a heap of feelings. Thousands of unravelled thoughts, hundreds of translucent unfulfilled desires, silent tension, and that elusive sweet torment that I can never explain.       Boundaries blur, principles break, identities dissolve. A thread stretches, invisible and thin, connecting that fragile thing we have, and it seems I am somewhat happy.       You are not the hero of my story, I am not the heroine of yours. We're just us, stuck in the middle of nothing, without first kisses and crazy dates. Too obvious to deny, but too distant to become something more.

***

      It seems like mid-February. In the cold office it's always the same season, frozen in pictures and hiding in elusive reflections. Loneliness it must be. Warmth exists only in the cup of cooling coffee. In thoughts, it's stale and quiet. Only the yellowish glow of the desk lamp trembles amid the emptiness of this evening. In front of me is a sheet of paper on which I'm going to cross out my torment, confessing what has long thinned out my inner core. About you.       I do not even manage to write your name.       The phone starts buzzing the moment I decide to disappear from this room.       You.       With an uneven movement, I run my finger across the screen, and after a moment, I hear your beloved sarcastic tone. I bet you're smiling, squinting your eyes slightly.       "Still at work?"       I realize I didn't expect anything else—and stupidly hope that somewhere there's an emergency, which could justify all this. Because between us, there's too much for friends and too little for lovers.       Because my sheet is empty.       "And a good evening to you," I can't resist irony, genuinely wondering what could you ask—and at the same time desparately wanting you to. "May I inquire what this late call is owed to?"       The question is illogical from the start. I just need to choose—malice or light teasing. I'm still deciding whether to let you dance on the ruins of my dignity when you derail my thoughts.       "How about a small evening in good company? Blackjack and girls will be there too."       Valentine's Day, huh? You're as excellent as ever—turning me inside out with two sentences, breaking the cocoon of detachment. I don't know what to say. Before me is the abyss where you just stepped. Below is a solid dark bottom, covered in dust and unknown.       Your world spins too fast and burns too bright.       And I'm a moth. I don't want to burn.       "No, thank you. I already have plans."       I really do. My plans are to erase you from the future forever, having no past and wanting nothing more in the present.

***

      Sweet conversation, ringing laughter, warm embrace, gentle touch, entwined fingers—and we wake up alone in different cities again, hanging in the emptiness even deeper, hundreds of miles further, even more defenseless before the truth.       Sorry, I'm afraid of heights.       Our abyss is a prison, our stubbornness is the jailer. Time flies, loneliness penetrates with cold to the bones. The soul pleads to do something, just anything, and I do, looking away, getting into the car, and hitting the road. It doesn't matter where. Between us are commitments, stubbornness, and kilometers. No emotions. Just unspoken feelings, which I'll survive.