monologue

"But I love you."
Where? Where is this love? I can’t see it, I can’t touch it. I can’t feel it.
I can hear it. I can hear some words, but I can’t do anything with your easy words.
(Closer, 2004)

i promised myself i would face your absence with dignity.
instead, i remember:

the floor cold, room hollow. the shower stares at me,
the tile laughing at our despair. my words are meaningless, your gaze
empty. i think back to the time right after we met.
sitting on the decomposing stairs. there was dust, so much dust.
you brushed the cobwebs off my words. i meant them then.
so full of promise, the broken glass you carefully led my sandaled feet
around.

you fell asleep with my hand on your chest,
my ring stuck on your index finger.

____________

and now, this:
broken sobs.
the heat of anger, the final storm. the word devastating
clinging to the wallpaper,
my private collection of last looks.
some vacant echo reverberating
between the walls. water, tears.
water.

so much water.

____________

i remember waking at seven one morning in the spring.
it was raining, you still went outside for a cigarette.
we were quiet then. i fed you pieces of an apple, you watched me
fall back into sleep.

you owed me something then.
the word love is an agreement, a treaty.
the word love is a sentencing.

it owed me an answer when i asked it,
how will this ever survive me?

____________

that evening on the boat when you made me dance.
i wasn’t afraid then. we had cheesecake
and miles of river ahead. that boat would have sailed us
as far as we let it.

the yellow rose that died before its time, your hand against my
thigh under the table. sweat. the sound of trains.

quiet.

____________

and then, reality:
i am too much like
your mother and you are
too afraid.
the water steals the room, too deep to walk away.
i turn, gasp for air.
i turn back.
there is only a ripple where you were.