Who knows right now if any of it will stick? You and me, the cancer cells, my anger at you, my distrust of her, the snow on the ground. Some mornings I wake up and it’s melted, all of it. I see the sun through my window and I walk to yoga with my head phones on; some days to Pilates. I think of getting through the day with it gone, with you off my mind. By afternoon it’s snowing again, and my thoughts mimic the storm, blowing in heavy and damp, sticking. I walk home and it’s dark and I think about sleep that won’t come, another day without an end. I get under the covers anyway and try to clear my head. I think about yoga breath and the beach that I go to in my mind with tan sand and green water and my swimsuit that matches. I always go to the same place when I let go and that’s where it is, a beach someplace I’ve never been and my hair is long and wet, soaking wet, and I’m wearing a green bikini that accentuates my tan and I walk for awhile and then lay in a hammock, alone. Sometimes there’s a man there with me, he lies in the hammock next to me, caressing my thigh while I reach for my water. I smile with contentment. I never can see his face though I know he’s there. Sometimes I go there alone though, it’s just me and the ocean and I walk into the salt water sun in my face, sand in my toes. This has always been my place to go, to hide, to escape to. It’s only mine and no one else’s.
But I am jarred from it now after 2 minutes at most. Mere moments of rest before I feel the weight of reality again and my body tenses from trauma. I wonder if you’re sad too or if you fall asleep after a moment as you usually do. I think about you laughing and drinking, playing the guitar and singing a little. I wonder if I even miss you now with all these miles between us. I think I would miss you even if you were here next to me, humming your song and stroking my hand, holding me as I pretend to sleep. You can’t comfort me now and you have stopped trying. I try to comfort myself.
I’ve told too many people, or in my head I have. Four is not a big number, but one should have been enough. At first it was, before the Xanax didn’t work and neither did the Ambien and I started drowning from lack of dreams to escape in at night. Their reactions didn’t faze me though. I knew how they would react before they did and when they did I failed to react because it was already reality for me, I had already reacted. There’s nothing they can say, any of the four that will change how I feel but I listen anyway, because they love me, because it comforts them a little.
Love isn’t something I think about now, when these days turn into night and back into morning again. How will a word make it better? It’s not enough anymore, that word. Not like the night it was new and you said it for the first time to me and I felt it filling my body so full that I might burst. It doesn’t feel good now. It aches in my chest. I don’t want to say it. Maybe if I don’t say it it will go away this love. Maybe it can disappear the way it appeared. I grabbed onto it when it arrived and held it for a little while before giving it to you that morning with stale breath and tosseled hair. Can I let it float away as easily? Or does it still comfort you now, even though I can’t show it to you? So much meaning for such a little word.
But I am jarred from it now after 2 minutes at most. Mere moments of rest before I feel the weight of reality again and my body tenses from trauma. I wonder if you’re sad too or if you fall asleep after a moment as you usually do. I think about you laughing and drinking, playing the guitar and singing a little. I wonder if I even miss you now with all these miles between us. I think I would miss you even if you were here next to me, humming your song and stroking my hand, holding me as I pretend to sleep. You can’t comfort me now and you have stopped trying. I try to comfort myself.
I’ve told too many people, or in my head I have. Four is not a big number, but one should have been enough. At first it was, before the Xanax didn’t work and neither did the Ambien and I started drowning from lack of dreams to escape in at night. Their reactions didn’t faze me though. I knew how they would react before they did and when they did I failed to react because it was already reality for me, I had already reacted. There’s nothing they can say, any of the four that will change how I feel but I listen anyway, because they love me, because it comforts them a little.
Love isn’t something I think about now, when these days turn into night and back into morning again. How will a word make it better? It’s not enough anymore, that word. Not like the night it was new and you said it for the first time to me and I felt it filling my body so full that I might burst. It doesn’t feel good now. It aches in my chest. I don’t want to say it. Maybe if I don’t say it it will go away this love. Maybe it can disappear the way it appeared. I grabbed onto it when it arrived and held it for a little while before giving it to you that morning with stale breath and tosseled hair. Can I let it float away as easily? Or does it still comfort you now, even though I can’t show it to you? So much meaning for such a little word.
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