I remember being warm. You smiled at me; we sat
illuminated by the fire, fingers interlaced.
"Your hands are finally warm," you said, and I smiled back because they were. I don't remember the last time my fingers weren't brittle icicles clutching at themselves.
My cavernous dwelling is now a shrine to you—something I think you knew would happen. All my furniture—the loveseats, in the most Freudian sense—has some pallid, happy memory of all thought grinding to a halt, my frenetic mind and energy purring like a cat in the sun, idling quietly, content. I cannot stand to sit on my furniture—I cannot stand lying in my own bed.
Did you ever look at the date you departed me? Did you see the numerology so delightfully perfect that I myself could not have written a more inspired coincidence? For days now I have dwelt on that moot point—whether it even matters, or the facts and actions carried out behind the curtain are just something to distract myself from the real tragedy onstage.
I am a desperate man–so eagerly running with abandon to
escape the truth I know exists, but so adamantly hide from. Self-reflection
reveals only that I know this pain is knowing reality, and I have always been
an artist of pain.
This is what I require to succeed in my desperation.
This is what I require to succeed in my desperation.
