Leaving Buenos Aires

The dense blend of smoke and cologne infused into my head, begging to be let out. So I roll down the window. The crisp air swirled with exhaust came to the rescue for all of us stuck inside. We are stopped again in the crowd of vehicles and I realize that rush hour exists here as well. I'm at a loss about what to say about this place. Maybe I didn't take enough to time to see it, hear it, feel it. Maybe my senses have been dulled too much for it to happen like it used to. Maybe it hasn't been enough time. Maybe i was distracted by the conversation. At the risk of writing too much on the surface, what's really on my mind are just his words, why he said them, what they do and don't mean. Those few words awakened so much complexity in me, he would never know. And what they may have stirred in him I could only guess. This is what they mean by baggage. They say the roads in Rome were built upon layers and layers of ruins, layers that were probably too impossible to remove and thus served as cushioning for the next present. They're invisible until a loose brick is displaced. It is like the complexity of red wine, that concoction of the past. I still remember what it was once like when it was pure excitement, passion, and longing, which already overwhelmed. Now there is also the hints of empathy, sadness, disappointment, calm, and resignation. It is an acquired taste, the kind that makes my lips tighten and cringe but with the promise that it would get better. My chest is heavy and my heart droops like a water balloon filled to capacity hanging from the lip of the faucet. It wants so badly to stay. Not necessarily for him I think, but for itself to savor the fullness. It let's me know and makes me nauseous. I'm proud that I found the courage to look into his eyes more than once, to allow the kindness in us to say hello in the midst of the threats that surround us. I tried to let my eyes say as much as I could and let my words take a rest. Words said and unsaid have always left too much to regret. It was a beautiful moment I think, one that I felt good enough to walk briskly away from. Perfect just as it is. ;l I'd like to believe that our situations are as well. Perfect as they are. Because it would be so exhausting otherwise. This is the most exhausting love of my life. It takes all of me to imagine myself without him and with him. It's taken all my spirit to maintain it, then all of my year to reclaim my spirit. It is so much mine because I've bled into it so much. I'm tired of considering other things, the calculation, the guilt, the secrets, the wishing.