Stranger

Who held the scapel to your brain? Who was it, what was it, that sliced away the parts of you that tied you to me? Like a blown lightbulb, suddenly, you were emotionless. I didn't recognise the shade of your eyes anymore; a distant teal, a cold grey-blue. You pulled your hand back from mine, unwinding it from where it was entangled. That's when I lost my balance. That's when I began to fall. But you just watched me spiral and tumble through the darkness, saw me plunge into the abyss while you stood, detached, on the cliff. I knew you could save me. I knew that you could open turquoise eyes, could smile in sunbeams the way you used to and the shadows would fade. You could've easily taken my hand again, but you didn't. You let me love you harder, with the desperation of an addict deprived of their drug. You let me try harder, watched me stretching out that hand, watched me visibly holding on. You were weak, you couldn't do it. Couldn't say the words and see me hit the bottom. So you left me in freefall. How could you? Until, with catastrophic timing, you found the volume. I did hit the bottom. I did break. I am broken. Barely breathing... But I don't understand. What happened to my baby? Who held that gleaming scapel and both disconnected you and doomed me? Because this is not you, not the man I know inside out, not the man who worshipped me. Fractures that will not set, a stranger holds the remainders.