take the lumps beneath my neck and measure them, (the breadth and width) and listen deep, and feel my breath against your waist, against your cheek. take the samples, like I said; see the people that I’ve left - leaving hurts, yet needing empty space hurts more than emptiness. that boy had lumps, and spots and bumps and aches where I have none. just one last test will be enough, you’re not the (only) one.
so with a needle in my arm and a thumb against my chest, and an ear against his back, to try to hear what’s felt, I pressed my arms against that boy to see how much of him I’d lift or push away, but keep as well, how often he could trip beyond the line of mine, before the line where I’m not his.
when should I stop my searching for an answer to the question of the hollow in my ribcage and the worries on my lips: when I run out of people I’ll eventually get sick of, or when I run out of things to be sick with?
“Every part of my body felt electric. My chest ached and my head throbbed with the great terrible limitless possibility of the morning, and when it came, the sky was washed white, everything was new, and I hadn’t slept at all.”—Dave Eggers, What is the What (via larmoyante)