synapse.

when humans connect, it is very intimate. every touch, every word , every moment is inexplicably fragile. this connection, this psychological merging, takes a toll. 

it is uncomfortable when people leave, because they leave remnants with you. the link is lost, and there is a metaphysical disturbance. there is complexity in human relationships. there is emptiness in absence.

absence can kill.

it is vulnerable. but it is a necessity.

you learn. you learn again. again. 

-

i don't know what to write. maybe it's because there are no words to say what i want to. 

i refrain from making connections. when you link with another person, it is minimally physical. you become each other.  it is difficult to do it again and again. 

synapses of neurons make memories. these miniscule connections make our memories. these miniscule communications make thoughts. the chemical coordination is breathtaking.

when did we steal bits of each other before leaving ?

a: i will go mad.

b: ..
a: make me.
b: come.
a: you will turn away, won't you?
b: i don't know. you know where i get stuck. don't ask.

a: this madness. it lives in moments.
b: seems like it, doesn't it?
a: only if i did not belong. to you. to them. you would never have doubted me.

-

you hold my hand for a long time.

i wish you hadnt taken pieces of me.

i wish i hadnt kept pieces of you.

i wish i had met you when we were grown ups. 

and you saw me for who i was.

 you wouldn't make me apologise.

perhaps you wouldn't be such an animal.

i wish i reminded myself before kneeling down. 

that you are a monster.

and i am worse.

because after everything you've done.

i look up at you, begging for forgiveness.

you make me someone i am not.

the audacity you have to make a home in me.

-

the mass dismisses the soul's entropy as unsentimental.

neurotic children must grow up. must tend to their lawns. in our symmetrical purgatory. 

it was later you realised.

that it was your brain that fell in love. synapsed. 

your heart never did.

-

there was a story ma used to tell me.

it was about the ship of theseus.

after reckless voyages on sea,

the ship had to be repaired.

and one by one

all the planks were replaced identical to the ones in ruins.

the paradox was whether the ship remained the same

or became a new one entirely.

the question remains.

am i a gallery of the ghosts of my sailors. the one that returned.

or am i the ship that i rebuilt.

how much of me is gone, mother ? i look back.

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