Do You Go

I'm walking around his apartment, looking at the walls, feeling the space, I feel so comfortable and close with him, more than ever before, yet still ashamed speaking on the phone while he is listening. I walk away, lean on the kitchen counter, too lazy for escaping, I sit down on the wooden end of his bed, on the floor. He isn't in the room now, I wished not to raise my voice into the receiver, I do anyway. I know that he can hear me, I'm embarrassed, I feel that familiar lack of privacy. He hears me say that I believe for the first time that I know hatred within another as I have only before for myself. I say that it was quite the realization.

He explained that he wanted to be exactly like that, the ideal example. A person whose one flaw was an absence of care for his own safety, who did anything for those he loved. I wanted to tell him that it was not as fun as it sounds.

He had never asked a question so honestly, he looked up and said, "how deep do you go?" He wanted to know how far, how do you know when to stop?

You don't know.