By Naa Asheley Ashitey
I can’t pretend that I’m okay with waking up from a nightmare at 2am
and not having you rub my back to calm me down.
I don’t want phone calls or text messages any longer.
Physicality has never defined us and will never define us,
but it can surely be a part of us, no?
It can surely be part of the many gestures
Of your affections towards me.
And it has been before.
I’m at rock bottom.
I’m in mourning.
I’m in a world beyond despair,
And if I don’t see you soon,
Maybe disrepair.
I need it.
I’m in need of it.
I need it all,
And I could surely get it from him,
Her, them, anyone.
So could you.
But instead, I write soliloquies.
I dance to the memory of your voice
In my room, alone.
In the dark, I play alone,
Weeping each time the game
Comes close to an end,
Because it’s never a good ending.
It’s London 1952,
And I fear that this will become permanent;
That I’ll never be able to come up for air
And embrace familiarity.
Or Kiss clarity.
I’m in love with you,
And I want nothing more but you.
I refuse endings.
This shall not end,
I will not end.
There is no ending unless
You create the ending.
So, until then,
There is no ending.
This will never—
Naa Asheley Afua Adowaa Ashitey is a writer and aspiring physician-scientist from Chicago, currently living in San Francisco. Her works have been published in Soul Talk Magazine, Blacklight Magazine, Euphony Journal, The /tƐmz/ Review and The Xylom. More at www.NaaAshitey.com
