(no subject)
It’s the sort of night that in movie a sad saxophone would be playing in the background. The type you don’t find to be real, were the moon is just a little too big and a little too white. The street is silent the wind a breeze moving softly maybe a lone white paper cup dancing with it. It’s the night were a stranger waits in the shadows, dressed in a long coat and hat for the right time to step under the lamp light. It’s a movie night, and there are few elements missing to complete it.
It’s a quiet night and I’m standing here waiting against the building wall, I’m not wearing a long coat and I’m not wearing a hat. I have tattered jeans, an old t-shirt and my hands in my pockets. I do have the token cigarette hanging off the side of my mouth. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for, because there is nothing left to wait for.
I’m the screw up, the side of the story no one cares about because the viewers are all busy hating me and waiting for the hero to recover. I’m also waiting for him to recover, to come to my side and promise everything will be just fine. He would call me tragic.
I’m tragic, a tragedy a disaster. I can’t sleep anymore not while thinking about him, while missing him, while needing him. I can’t stand to be here, not on the same street, not in the same city, not after what I’ve done. I’ve stayed by this building for many nights watching the son come out, watching the interns walk out with heavy bags under their eyes after another day on call.
I don’t have the courage to walk in there; I don’t have the guts, the strength to see him there again. I can’t and I won’t. He is too pale, too still and my knees give in just at the thought. Plus, I can see it in their eyes, in all of their eyes how they blame me. How they wonder what I did exactly to bring him here. If they knew the monster I am, the monster I become.
God, I need him. I need him so much, I want him to tell me it’ll be fine, that everything is okay, forgotten forgiven. That all this hate, that all this love is worth it, is useless and that we will work through it. He knows what to say, he knows how to fix it. He always does, because I don’t and it’s his…it is him.
And he won’t because I know that he won’t. Because he can’t and it’s my fault.
It’s time for me to go, because there won’t be any fixing this, not until he can. It’s time for me to put room away from this building, away from this silence and this city. The road and the stage have always called me and it’s time to answer. It’s time to leave, until he comes for me.
He will come for me, he always does. He always finds me even when I’m lost inside myself.