Settling with the Absentee

I sink in the flows of the wind, treading lightly, the air fitting the palm of my hand—just right. The music in my ears loud enough to drown out the hollowness surrounding me. To my right, books casting a slanting shadow, and my hands ache to touch it, get a feel of it. My senses are longing to latch on the intangible, undefinable. I don’t understand what it wants. My mind yearns for my love to finally be put to rest. It’s been a couple of years, I am beyond exhausted.

—

Pack me in your suitcase, take me everywhere you go. Watch my shadow imitate yours. I can tell you how beautiful you are in at least a thousand and one ways. This is how you smile, from your eyes, that gleam, to the cheeks, that blush, and lips, that beam. Transfer the pain through my bones, pinpoint which part of your being hurts the most, let the ache flow from your flesh to mine, and I’ll cradle your heart so that tomorrow it all goes away—things are going to be fine, don’t you fret. Brush those eyelashes onto my skin, perhaps on the area at the back of my palm, so that I may touch the epidermis of your sightline and try to make an impression—a good one. Listen to me listening to you, you’re loving the attention, aren’t you? I feel my soul dissolving in your presence, it flees and breaks down into nothingness. Run, as fast as you can, leave me behind. I’ll catch up. Rush into it, as you will. I’ll be here when you’re back.

—

In the porch / the wind whispers in our language three years ago / but in your cruel way, stole its voice. Remnants of carbon dioxide / remain latched on my right ear. / We sit at the dinner table, skipped lunch altogether. / Something moved within the walls / but I’ve witnessed it once thousands of months ago. / Nothing to worry, must not fuss / I screamed and you sipped your wine / quietly. / Dirty martinis all over the floor / and I’d rather step on the glass shards than speak to you / watch my feet bleed in rapid flow / scratch my throat with fishbone. / Clean up, do the dishes, off to bed. / Where is my calendar? / I will keep adoring you, until I’ve run out of pain to kill.

—

Once the door has closed, I know it’s time for you to come in. Settle in my thoughts and make yourself at home. 

—

Surely, this isn’t normal. Are you dead? Is this how people feel when they die? Or perhaps, when they’re dying? Your eyes remain open only halfway, like the state your consciousness is in—you’re half awake. This is the moment you’ve been waiting your whole life, you think. This is it. Paradise, or at least a part of it. Probably purgatory. You cherish the thought in your head, holding on to your last seconds of peace. And then, birds chirping—you hear it. You feel the lightness of the liquid supporting your body from underneath. Waves. The waves carrying you forward, up, down, very lightly the flow continues. Water. It feels like water. You’re floating on water—on a body of water.

— 

When the water reaches its freezing point, and you’ve soaked yourself long enough for it to acclimate—there. There, do you feel that? Now, warm to the skin. Gentle enough for you to bathe your whole body in. This. This is when I know I’m home.

— 

I sit up straight and unconsciously rest my sight on the stack of books I have on my bedside table, then out my window behind the curtain in one of the apartments just across the highway, and finally down upon the city streets—suddenly you’re there.

You’re there and I see you, a figment of my hallucination, perhaps; you seem to be everywhere I’m surrounded by. I see you in my walls, in the space behind my bedroom door, possibly inside the air conditioning unit, and in the soft, comforting spot just below the pillow supporting my back. These things remain immobile but really, is that even worth mentioning? Does it make a difference? Even then, you were barely there, your presence just as immobile. Still, it aches me to think that this city has your fingerprints all over it and you’re probably a few minutes away from me right now and there’s no way for me to reach you.

—

This is where we draw the line. Here, where the cable lines entangle, and the power’s cut off—city lights out. Here, from shore to shore, wave to wave, do you see the current? Incoming. Let it engulf you and I’ll watch you drown. Here, up the mountaintop, the steep and slippery slope. Down, I’ll push you, only to hear you scream for help. Or mercy, preferably. Here, where no one’s watching and nothing’s out to kill you but you, yourself, and your cruel ways. Here, where I stand, and there, where you weep. I could cut off my shoulder and give it to you, but only if you choose to stay. 

This is where we draw the line. Here, where nothing lies, and only darkness survives. I can see your ghost moving freely about. I mourn.