Oh God. I can’t.
I can’t tell you where it hurts. I don’t know and I can’t. If I try, if I do tell you. I already know that I’ll fail. That’s part of the problem.
What can I say? Speaking is impossible. And silence is impossible. Speaking feels like an infidelity. And silence feels like an infidelity.
So the best I can hope to do is balance impossibility against impossibility, infidelity against infidelity. So that, maybe, I’ll succeed in the midst of my failure. Maybe I’ll succeed through my failure, because of my failure. Maybe my failure to communicate, the brokenness of my attempts, will mirror the brokenness of the situation, will express the sadness and the silence of the sickness. The sadness and ineffability inherent, already inscribed, within all friendships. Within all kinships. Within all loves.