A living death

We were together only in our absence from each other, an absence into which we threw our beckoning voices like sirens. We knew what we wanted — we wanted what we didn’t know — and we worked hard at it. It was a tightrope walk. We walked towards each other, slowly at first, with great trepidation, then through each other to the other side. Over and over, more confident now. Turning, laughing. It was like dying, like a living, thrilling death. We stayed at the limits of each other with no possession nonsense, the one dying to and for the other. There were days when we were neither ourselves nor the other, yet both. Days when we walked through one another into the infinite. Until the world called us back to itself, and our voices resurfaced.