I count everything. That’s the only way I know. I count to help myself, to steady myself, to defy gravity or to obey it. I count to verify reality.
It doesn’t matter what I count. I just count. I have to count.
I count so that the lines do not dance and disappear. I count so that I know I exist and everything else around me remains constant.
I count numbers, seconds, patterns on my dress, and my breath.I count scars and empty bottles.
I count the number of times you sent me flowers; the number of times you called me “mine”.
I count our dates, our fights, the hours you kept me waiting.
I count to live and to cease pain. I count so that I could forget the days you had me hanging, the times you had me yearning, the days you held me close – too close.
I count photographs of us – 35. I count photographs of you – 28.
I count the minutes spent on putting everything in a box; on opening it and re-closing it for the 7th time.