She is staring at him from across the room, her lips clamped together in a thin line. He is always here at this time, and she cannot help but be here as well. Her books are laid out in front of her, with busy looking papers lifeless beside them. She really did come here to work, she tells herself. As soon as she sees his face the deceitful thought vanishes; there is no confusion about why she is here. His face is one that fills her with desire and a kind of desperate, clawing need. Of course he is the reason she’s here.
She knew him once…it feels like so long ago. It was then, in the time before, that she had lost her heart and found it again in his hands. If she had known that this would happen, that his pitiful state would be the end of such rampant emotions, she never would have given him a second look.
But she did. And she knows that ultimately she would not have changed anything. There was something tragic, yet beautiful, about the way things turned out. What with her loving him with a passion that poets write about, and him forgetting her easily enough. Though she cannot blame him- as she authored most of it in her head, building a novel upon words whose meaning she had twisted, and then being angry with him when he would not help her keep the lie standing. There were some words whose meanings she just couldn’t twist to suit her wants.
For a while, however, she thought things might end as she wished. She had thought that they could make it work, opposites though they were. She had once thought that she might have him in the end and that all her pain would not be for nothing. She wonders if he had ever believed so. It is doubtful, he was always the realist. He had been saying goodbye since he met her.
But would she love him if he were anything but that which he is? Of course not. She knew this. She did. She simply let his smile distract her for a while. It is perhaps his smile that she misses most. What she would enjoy first if she could have him back.
And she does want him back. Sitting here in the crowded shop, with her view of him distorted by the faces and bodies of strangers, she wants him back. Part of her knows that it is not worth it, that he would come with more than just a smile. He would come with pain, agony and a confusion of self- but she would gladly endure all those things. She would gladly accept a life of uncertainties and of confrontations if only to have him. She would leave behind all that she knew to be with him. She would set aside good judgment for him. She is in many ways like a petty child, wanting that which is bad for her and refusing to heed to the consequences.
There is a problem, however, in her fantasy world of wants: he does not want her. He has already made his choice, assuming there was one, and it was not her. It will never be her. This too she knows. As she absentmindedly stirs her now-cold drink with spoon it occurs to her that she knows an awful lot. She knows him. She knows what she wants. She knows the two are the same. She knows she cannot have him. She knows. She knows. She knows.
She is doomed to know.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Friday, January 9, 2009
Dead and Gone
They stand around her with complacent smiles, formed in strained sympathy. She is surrounded by those who will never understand, and do not want to. As they huddle together in their eager commiseration she finds an escape, striking off towards town and towards the bridge.
She feels better when she finally arrives at the site, as if a hand had been around her neck had suddenly been removed. The cheap suits and wilting flowers have been replaced with the crashing waves and groans of the bridge beneath her. There is no sympathy here at this wooden monument; no sad faces, save for her own. No judgment of his choice. No muttered words of disgrace and tragedy.
They have all told her not to come here, they said it wasn't healthy. But this is the only place she can still feel him. She couldn't feel him as he lay in the casket, his face so unnaturally pale. She couldn't feel him beneath the cold marble of this headstone. But here, standing with her face towards the grey waters that he chose to loose himself to, she can feel him. His whispers are the cool wind and his mummers the gurgle of the water as it flows across the rocks below. If she shuts her eyes she can almost feel him standing next to her, waiting.
The sun has begun its journey down to its western resting place, turning the dark river a brilliant collage of reds, pinks and yellows. The trees along the shore match the fiery hues. They have lost the life that once turned their leaves vibrant shades of green. They have begun to curl and fall.
Maybe that's what happened to him, maybe he lost the color in his life. Perhaps it had all become a photograph in shades of grey and black. Maybe he leapt into the colors of the river, hoping to find life through death.
She can only guess at what compelled him to leave.
She should have come back sooner...she should have never left.
No. His choice had nothing to do with her. Even if she had been standing on the rough wooden ledge next to him he would have jumped. He would have looked her in the eyes and asked her forgiveness as he stepped forward, into the one place she couldn't follow. He would have let her watch his body twist as it fell, finally smashing into the oblivion below. He would have believed her to be strong enough to witness his final work of art.
Her vision blurs with hot, heavy tears. I miss you, she weeps.
She wishes that she could be angry, that she could beg him to return. But the anger would taste of lies, and to ask him to stay would be to deny him his last sense of freedom. To ask him to stay would be to ask him to suffer. She cannot do so. Will not do so. She can only mourn him for a time. She can only carry the fragments of him that remain in her heart.
She can only remember.
She feels better when she finally arrives at the site, as if a hand had been around her neck had suddenly been removed. The cheap suits and wilting flowers have been replaced with the crashing waves and groans of the bridge beneath her. There is no sympathy here at this wooden monument; no sad faces, save for her own. No judgment of his choice. No muttered words of disgrace and tragedy.
They have all told her not to come here, they said it wasn't healthy. But this is the only place she can still feel him. She couldn't feel him as he lay in the casket, his face so unnaturally pale. She couldn't feel him beneath the cold marble of this headstone. But here, standing with her face towards the grey waters that he chose to loose himself to, she can feel him. His whispers are the cool wind and his mummers the gurgle of the water as it flows across the rocks below. If she shuts her eyes she can almost feel him standing next to her, waiting.
The sun has begun its journey down to its western resting place, turning the dark river a brilliant collage of reds, pinks and yellows. The trees along the shore match the fiery hues. They have lost the life that once turned their leaves vibrant shades of green. They have begun to curl and fall.
Maybe that's what happened to him, maybe he lost the color in his life. Perhaps it had all become a photograph in shades of grey and black. Maybe he leapt into the colors of the river, hoping to find life through death.
She can only guess at what compelled him to leave.
She should have come back sooner...she should have never left.
No. His choice had nothing to do with her. Even if she had been standing on the rough wooden ledge next to him he would have jumped. He would have looked her in the eyes and asked her forgiveness as he stepped forward, into the one place she couldn't follow. He would have let her watch his body twist as it fell, finally smashing into the oblivion below. He would have believed her to be strong enough to witness his final work of art.
Her vision blurs with hot, heavy tears. I miss you, she weeps.
She wishes that she could be angry, that she could beg him to return. But the anger would taste of lies, and to ask him to stay would be to deny him his last sense of freedom. To ask him to stay would be to ask him to suffer. She cannot do so. Will not do so. She can only mourn him for a time. She can only carry the fragments of him that remain in her heart.
She can only remember.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Photograph
As she holds the photo before her face memories come flooding back, like some great body of water. Waves of time long forgotten fill her lungs. Has it really been ten years? Surely the weeks could not have turned into years so quickly...
His face looks exactly the same as she remembers. His smile, the sparks in his eyes. His bangs strewn across his forehead, his expression sure and steady. None of it has changed. And the wounded boy still lurks beneath the surface, silently begging for help; words his mouth would never utter. She still longs to reach out and take away the pain- the torment.
Fate did not allow her to.
Perhaps it never would, no matter how much she longed to.
Did he remember her? Or has she become just a cobweb of a distant memory? Would she ever hear his voice again- hear his words whispered to her, followed by a secret grin?
Brief laughter, hidden smiles, buried anguish. Did they still plauge his dreams as they did hers? she wonders.
She caresses the photo one last time before placing it back in the book, a tear finding its way to the pages before she can snap the front cover shut. Her unsteady hands place it back on the well-worn shelf.
Fate was too cruel.
His face looks exactly the same as she remembers. His smile, the sparks in his eyes. His bangs strewn across his forehead, his expression sure and steady. None of it has changed. And the wounded boy still lurks beneath the surface, silently begging for help; words his mouth would never utter. She still longs to reach out and take away the pain- the torment.
Fate did not allow her to.
Perhaps it never would, no matter how much she longed to.
Did he remember her? Or has she become just a cobweb of a distant memory? Would she ever hear his voice again- hear his words whispered to her, followed by a secret grin?
Brief laughter, hidden smiles, buried anguish. Did they still plauge his dreams as they did hers? she wonders.
She caresses the photo one last time before placing it back in the book, a tear finding its way to the pages before she can snap the front cover shut. Her unsteady hands place it back on the well-worn shelf.
Fate was too cruel.
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