A Retelling of Events That Never Happened.
Your New Shoes are Ugly.
I guess we needed a break. Not that this was mutual or discussed. You just sort of vanished. And then you show up again out of the blue. Your hair is longer and you're acting like nothing happened. I guess I’m not the first person you've done this to. You really ought to stop and think sometimes. Did you ever think that I needed you here? The first time or the second time. Well I did. I always needed you. Now there's a blister on my finger and your new shoes are ugly and I want to say this to you but I can't bring myself to speak the words.
So you sit on the foot of the bed and I roll over, my back to you, curled up in the blankets. It’s relatively silent. You sigh heavily, tap your fingers on your gray slacks. I clear my throat, pull the blankets tighter, try to ignore you. But it’s like when you can tell someone’s looking at you, even if you can’t see them. You sense the presence, the uneasiness. Like a ghost. (Close enough.)
“Are we going to do this all night?” you ask finally. Not exasperated or annoyed. Just inquisitive, wondering.
And it’s my turn to sigh, but it’s sad and I‘m sure you can tell. You lay down, not under the blanket. Your arms aren’t so much around me as on me, but it’s still nice all the same. “I hate it when you go.” The words feel like sandpaper in my throat.
“That’s just the way things are sometimes.” you say, like it’s all simple. But it’s not. It’s the furthest thing from simple. It’s like having an imaginary friend that doesn’t know you exist.
I bite my tongue, swallow the words. They taste like pills without water going down my throat, stuck somewhere. A big lump, but no tears.
“I’ll be in and out. I can’t ever leave, really. Always come back to you.” His words are soft in my ear and I feel his breath. It should be comforting like a warm breeze, but it’s more like a harsh winter wind with a too-thin jacket.
“Shouldn’t leave in the first place.” I mumble, more thinking out loud than anything else.
“Sometimes it’s easier for you to ignore me. Why should I be here for that?”
I have the answer but I won’t say it. I just sigh again, pull your arm tight around my waist. I close my eyes and pretend that this won’t melt away, pretend it’s real.
But even when you’re playing make-believe, part of you always knows that you will wake up.
And in the morning, I do. Alone and cold under the blankets.
So you sit on the foot of the bed and I roll over, my back to you, curled up in the blankets. It’s relatively silent. You sigh heavily, tap your fingers on your gray slacks. I clear my throat, pull the blankets tighter, try to ignore you. But it’s like when you can tell someone’s looking at you, even if you can’t see them. You sense the presence, the uneasiness. Like a ghost. (Close enough.)
“Are we going to do this all night?” you ask finally. Not exasperated or annoyed. Just inquisitive, wondering.
And it’s my turn to sigh, but it’s sad and I‘m sure you can tell. You lay down, not under the blanket. Your arms aren’t so much around me as on me, but it’s still nice all the same. “I hate it when you go.” The words feel like sandpaper in my throat.
“That’s just the way things are sometimes.” you say, like it’s all simple. But it’s not. It’s the furthest thing from simple. It’s like having an imaginary friend that doesn’t know you exist.
I bite my tongue, swallow the words. They taste like pills without water going down my throat, stuck somewhere. A big lump, but no tears.
“I’ll be in and out. I can’t ever leave, really. Always come back to you.” His words are soft in my ear and I feel his breath. It should be comforting like a warm breeze, but it’s more like a harsh winter wind with a too-thin jacket.
“Shouldn’t leave in the first place.” I mumble, more thinking out loud than anything else.
“Sometimes it’s easier for you to ignore me. Why should I be here for that?”
I have the answer but I won’t say it. I just sigh again, pull your arm tight around my waist. I close my eyes and pretend that this won’t melt away, pretend it’s real.
But even when you’re playing make-believe, part of you always knows that you will wake up.
And in the morning, I do. Alone and cold under the blankets.