**
“I love you; I’m in love with you. You are the love of my life. My every feeling is controlled by the look on your face” (Fitz, Scandal). I tell you this all the time, but you don’t believe me. I know these are not my own words, but isn’t it enough? I should probably have better boundaries, be less detached, so that my mood does not shift every time I see your face. I find myself unable to cope with my day if the sides of your mouth are turned down, and the light in your eyes is dim, and your face is ashen. I want to ease that tension on your face, iron straight your furrowed brows, and soften your pursed lips. The sound out of your lips is neither jovial nor comforting. My mind races ---wondering if I’m the cause. My mind races, wondering how to help. My mind races. But you grab my hand gently and pull me into a hug. You sigh, as though pushing out a weight that’s held you mercilessly. I should let you go, but then what? You squeeze me a little, and my heart relaxes. I ask you if everything is ok. You assure me everything is alright. I don’t believe you. But to be honest, I don’t know if I believe anything anymore.
For a moment I had believed that perhaps the tension all over you was because of me. And now I don’t believe what you’ve just said. My compass of belief and unbelief seems to be broken. I don’t know what the truth is. I don’t know if I can hear it. If it were in front of me, would I be able to recognize it? Could I hope in it? Keep it? Would it look like how I expect or would I misidentify it, put it down, convinced of my own truth?
I don’t examine words, to see if they are true. I don’t examine actions to see if they are true. I don’t examine the sound that I hear, to see its source, and to see if it is true. It’s either I accept, or second guess. And as I remain in your embrace, I wonder: what is the truth?
