gnaw at the heartbeat

some sort of love poem about being a dog

wilk by alfred von wierusz-kowalski

My friend asks if I’m worried that I’ll still think about him even after the time that has passed since he left exceeds the time that he was in my life and I say it’s hard to worry about something I know is true. This question is a cliché, but I forgive her because love and the loss of it are both breeding grounds for clichés.

“There’s only a finite amount of moments you can think back to,” she tells me.

“I think of each one infinitely,” I say and it’s a half-truth because the full-truth is each moment was never finite in the first place, each dot in time its own infinity.

This is how I’ve always been: chewing on memories long after the taste has expired, chewing on memories until the shape no longer resembles the original memory. I’m given a chew toy and mistakenly take the giver for a God; I think maybe all dogs think of their owners as God. The leash has long been abandoned, so I’ll loop a new thread around my neck and pretend someone else tied the knot. I am playing an endless game of telephone with my saliva; I know the aftertaste of the aftertaste is already so far removed from truth that the chew toy is more imagination than reality, but my teeth continue to grind.

I say to the memory: “You are the leash I tie around my own neck. Give me a reason to not gnaw it clean off.” But the memory knows I don’t have the teeth to gnaw off my own leash and so it remains silent, staring, unmoving. This fake leash keeps me a mirror image to it; how much longer can I stare at this memory?

The metaphor is hard to explain to friends. My friend asks if I’m worried that I’ll still think about him even after the time that has passed since he left exceeds the time that he was in my life and what she means is she is worried I am trapped in a memory. What she means is she is worried I won’t move on. I try to explain: there is a leash, so I can’t move on. I try to explain: the leash is fake, I am the one who tied it. I try to explain: I don’t want to move on. Please don’t make me leave this post.

My friend says there are only a finite amount of moments I can think back to, but I still check my mail every morning because I saw him attempt to write down my address behind my back. I open my junk email folder more times than I care to admit in the hopes that the reason my inbox remains empty is because of a glitch in the algorithm. My friend says there are only a finite amount of moments I can think back to, but the same does not apply for moments looking forward. How long will it be until I stop waiting to hear my name in your voice? How long until you evolve beyond presence to memory?

The opposite end of the leash being tied to memory doesn’t make the leash any less tied to the present and yet I am still the one double-knotting the thread once again. The inbox remains empty as does the hand holding the leash. I’ve been sitting alone in this room for a while now, asking questions towards the empty space that’s still halfway between presence and memory. Are you still there?

I won’t ask you for the world, just the pieces your shadow falls on. You once asked me what kind of God I wanted, so here is your answer: give me a God that will give me you. And if I cannot have you, give me your heart. And if you will not give your heart, I will gnaw at the heartbeat instead — fleeting thing that it is. Oh, my love, is this how you saw me too? Did this metaphor carry over to time; have you been measuring me in dog years?

Do you not hear me barking at the door or are you just pretending not to?

Let me be your dog. I promise to be good this time; I promise to only bite at your call. Let me be your dog. We don’t have to go anywhere, just let me stay by your side. Just a minute more is enough; time is infinite in dog years. Let me be your dog. I am on the ground, I am in the dirt, this empty feeling between my teeth has rendered me no more than a beast at your feet. Let me be your dog. Let me be your dog. Let me be your dog.

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