(no subject)
I got home the other day and something felt different. The air was kinetic...someone other than me had been there. I picked up a sculpture off the windowsill and carefully inched my way inside. Don't ask me why...I wasn't really thinking, except that's what people seem to do in the movies when they think someone's in their house. I guess maybe deep down I knew who was there... or had been there, anyway.
I saw an empty teacup and a key and the feeling of dread increased. I followed the aura down the hall, keeping a white knuckled grip on the sculpture. I entered the bedroom and then I knew for sure. My overnight bag filled with clothes from Stephen's apartment.
Evicted.
Not that I blame him. I dropped the sculpture, anyway. It would have been a better scene for a movie if it had shattered into a million pieces -- hello, basic metaphors 101. But the carpet is thick, the sculpture is made of metal and it just bounced once, then stayed still.
Intermediate metaphors 305, perhaps.
A quick glance of the bathroom saw all his toilet articles in the garbage. Tidying up after me to the end. The end...is it? We entered this with a resounding bang, and now we're going out with a whimper? How cliched. I don't accept it. Not yet.
I sat at the piano and tried to play, but my fingers weren't content with the cold, unyielding ivory. I clutched the edge of the bench to keep myself from leaping up and running barefoot down the streets until I reached his door...so I could reach up and use my aching fingers to smooth away the worried and pained lines from his face. His beautiful face. Replace fingers with lips. To hold his solid warmth against me and make his pain stop. I used to be able to do that...to make his pain either diappear, or at least break down into more manageable pieces. And now all I can do is add to it... making everything worse.
A couple of days and a hundred cigarettes later and I'm still here. I closed my eyes and threw my keys...somewhere. I can't leave and go to his place if I don't have my keys.
Because I can't go there. Not yet. There's still pieces of me missing and I can't beg for forgiveness until I find them. The only thing crueler than what I'm putting him through right now...would be to go to him and not be able to give him everything. He needs everything...he deserves everything.
I love him, but I'm scared. Of myself. Of us. I shouldn't even be posting this. Hope can be so cruel. But I keep thinking, not yet not yet not yet.
Yet is a hopeful word, isn't it?
I'm sorry.
I saw an empty teacup and a key and the feeling of dread increased. I followed the aura down the hall, keeping a white knuckled grip on the sculpture. I entered the bedroom and then I knew for sure. My overnight bag filled with clothes from Stephen's apartment.
Evicted.
Not that I blame him. I dropped the sculpture, anyway. It would have been a better scene for a movie if it had shattered into a million pieces -- hello, basic metaphors 101. But the carpet is thick, the sculpture is made of metal and it just bounced once, then stayed still.
Intermediate metaphors 305, perhaps.
A quick glance of the bathroom saw all his toilet articles in the garbage. Tidying up after me to the end. The end...is it? We entered this with a resounding bang, and now we're going out with a whimper? How cliched. I don't accept it. Not yet.
I sat at the piano and tried to play, but my fingers weren't content with the cold, unyielding ivory. I clutched the edge of the bench to keep myself from leaping up and running barefoot down the streets until I reached his door...so I could reach up and use my aching fingers to smooth away the worried and pained lines from his face. His beautiful face. Replace fingers with lips. To hold his solid warmth against me and make his pain stop. I used to be able to do that...to make his pain either diappear, or at least break down into more manageable pieces. And now all I can do is add to it... making everything worse.
A couple of days and a hundred cigarettes later and I'm still here. I closed my eyes and threw my keys...somewhere. I can't leave and go to his place if I don't have my keys.
Because I can't go there. Not yet. There's still pieces of me missing and I can't beg for forgiveness until I find them. The only thing crueler than what I'm putting him through right now...would be to go to him and not be able to give him everything. He needs everything...he deserves everything.
I love him, but I'm scared. Of myself. Of us. I shouldn't even be posting this. Hope can be so cruel. But I keep thinking, not yet not yet not yet.
Yet is a hopeful word, isn't it?
I'm sorry.