Having so much, wanting so much, fearing so much

The cold beeping of his answering machine keeps ringing through her ears. Communicating is like a intricately rehearsed dance these days; she takes a step forward, he moves back; he reaches out for her and she steps away. The distance is always there, increasing and decreasing with an irregular rhythm as he changes jobs and she writes stories. He's sorting numbers and she's creating headlines, always in a different city, a different time, a different path. On her lap is another of his letters - she's been in the city long enough for his words to reach her address, but not long enough to feel welcome here, not long enough for the streets to stop feeling strange, cold.

Her hand grips tightly around the phone as her eyes pierce into the wall of her hotel room. The mini bar is empty and she wonders how much more she can take. Shakily she inhales. Shuts her eyes. And then she tries to let it all go, fearing that if she stops, it'll go away, she'll never find the words again, never find the courage, the foolish momentum driven forth by tiny bottles of Jack Daniels, gin, and the chain of thoughts only conjured forth by the 4 AM darkness.

"Hey. I'm in our city now. Where we met. It's strange here, without you, after all this time. I'm lost. And I just want to tell you I love you. Even though I cannot be sure if it’s love. Even though I cannot be sure the one I know, is truly you. When you write, you only show a glimpse of who you are. A raw flash of your soul, yes, but you are so much more, we are so much more. We are the bodies we move in, the voices we talk with, the connections only felt by the heart as we stand inches apart.

Do we connect? Will you look at me as the trees whisper lullabies in the night, as the sand hushes the waves washing up on the shore, will you look at my silhouette in the dark and lose your breath because I am all that keeps you sane, balancing you on the edge of a blade between pain and pleasure, sanity and delirium? Will you? Will I sit next to you on the subway and ache, ache, ache to take your hand in mine, merely because it is your hand, because it’s there and it’s close and it’s you. Will you watch me from a distance and feel your heart burst as you notice how I scrounge my nose when I laugh, or how I hug my arms around me when I’m insecure? Will I secretly stare at your back as you’re browsing through magazines at the store, will I feel that knot in my stomach as I look at your feet peeking out from the sheets on a Sunday morning, that feeling of having so much, wanting so much, fearing so much that it’ll be gone with the next breeze, the next train, the next blink of an eye?

Will I?

I don’t know. And yet I think I love you."

Silence is roaring in her ears as she's watching the phone, knuckles white as she clenches her fists shut around the cold plastic. Oh fuck. Shaking, she tries to steady her breathing, her racing heart. The cold beeping of the answering machine mocks her again, and the knot in her stomach feels heavy, dark, as she realizes she won't say it this time either. 

Nothing But the Night

The dark of the night hid his face, the bags under his eyes, all she could see was the faint outline of a tired silhouette, back bent, face down. Resignation was written in his wrinkled clothes, his unruly hair.

-You know, sometimes, sometimes you get a taste of hope. At the tip of your tongue, or maybe like a faint scent that hits you when you think it's gone.

She raised her head, tried to make out the expression on his face. Nothing. The shadows hung over his features like a thin veil, muffling his words. His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.

 

-Then it hits you, the fact that it’s never going to happen, no matter how many solutions you come up with in the night, no matter how many explanations and stories you whisper to the ceiling as the midnight hour passes, leaving room for the most exhausting of time, those long, gruesomely long, hours before the sun rises and you’re left with no one else than yourself. You can call someone, whispering in the night, talking for distraction, talking for comfort. You can bring someone with you home, stumbling into the room with searching hands and breaths smelling like cheap vodka and a promise of relief, whispers of a moment where it all is forgotten. It’s only a small halt in the train of thought passing through the night, as the morning hours threaten with the impending dawn, you will still be left there with the night, and nothing but the night.

Orpheus and Eurydice

As the subway doors close you turn around, searching for the right pair of eyes, searching for anything, anyone, everything all at one. One day it will be there, the split-second where hazel eyes under heavy lashes will find you, and time will freeze, and only two hoping hearts will resonate between the cold steel doors of the eastbound line. 

You keep waiting for that moment, that soundtrack second where you'll find your Peter Parker, your Mr. Darcy, your moment of history where it all falls into place; falls into that split-second that will remind you that dreamers are the ones who eventually will find love, even if it’s just for that blink of an eye, that fraction of eternity where you'll look into his eyes and want it all, have it all, know it all and lose it all. All at once.

The Dangers of Dreaming

They told you of the dangers of love. The dangers of lust, the dangers of adrenaline, of speeding cars, of rash decisions and of strange men in dark alleys. They warned you about the hazards of loud music and about the perils of vodka shots. But they never told you about the dangers of dreaming. They never mentioned the way of out a day dream as you slowly feel yourself sink into a world of wishes and hopes rooted in nothing but your own aching heart and feverish imagination. And so you let yourself go under, sink far below the surface of everyday life and into a world that will haunt you with a beauty that always will be two inches away from your reaching fingers, always there, always out of touch.

9 to 5

Lunch break. A pause in the 9-to-5-rhytm I live by every day; a hitch in the never-ending pulse that makes the hours pass. I don’t even care to look at the others as they slowly rise from their chairs. Wrinkled shirts, coffee stains on khaki pants and endless musings about the weather move towards the cafeteria like a clumsy herd of sheep.

-Quite the rain shower last night, oh yes.

-It’s sunnier than usually this time of year, isn’t it?

-The nights are so cold now; I fear the roses I planted last week will take damage.

Immensely stimulating, I am sure. And yet I cross my fingers every noon, hoping that this might be the day the floor between the cubicles will crack open like a colossal pair of jaws and let them all fall into the blackest depths of earth, let them all be swallowed by dirt and flames and silence. Especially Johnson two cubicles down the hall, with his wheezy breath and long stares.

As the last few members of the herd waggle their way towards the soggy sandwiches and mellow soup, I sigh and lean back. I don’t even think as my hands search through my purse, following habit more than conscious thought as they pull a bottle of clear liquid up and onto the desk. It’s rum today. Thursday felt like a good day for rum.

My throat briefly protests as the liquor burns its way down, but I clear my throat and ignore the strong urge to spit it all out. A few minutes and the fire will spread from the tip of my tongue and engulf everything, with waves of apathy eventually caressing my body, a lulling embrace of indifference tugging at my thoughts.

Work, lunch, work. Annoyance, apathy, annoyance. The 9-to-5-rhytm my heart beats to.

Ursa Major

The earthy smell of autumn was in the air, it was on the ground and on her face. The night hid the piles of leaves that colored the park by daytime, and all the darkness revealed was a misty glow around the streetlights. A slight shiver crept down her spine, licked goosebumps over her back, her neck. It was cold, but the vodka chased it away. It always did.

The taste burned down her throat and she held down a cough. Took another sip, wrinkled her nose and repeated the routine. She never liked the taste of alcohol, and tried to soothe her protesting senses with a cigarette. It was still there. The taste of cheap vodka, the taste of tears and the taste of vomit. Most of all, it was the taste of him.

It never left her. Week after week, and he still lingered on her lips.

-Fucking fuck, she muttered, unceremoniously waving goodbye to eloquence for the night.

Another few minutes of silence passed, and she sighed. Stopped. If she kept walking, she’d eventually meet up with her friends again. His friends. Maybe even him. Not now. Huffing to herself, she stepped onto the wet grass and laid down on her back. Not moving a muscle, but still feeling every element of the world move around her, going in circles around her head, making her dizzy as the trees blended into the streetlights.

Looking up, she noticed the stars. They were bright tonight, clear. She traced out the ones she’d learned the names of and cursed. Squinting she followed the patterns of Ursa Major – the Big Dipper – and mumbled as her finger swept over the dots she recognized. Alkair, Mizar, Alioth. Megrez, Phecda -

-Fucking stars and their constellations.

A lone cloud drifted across the light of the dipper, hid one star, revealed another. As she distantly watched the patch of darkness cross the sky, assisting the stars in their short game of hide and seek, she heard the rustle of leaves behind her in the grass. Worn out converse shoes slowly soaking in the dew, approaching without a word. One step. Another. The smell of fabric softener, beer and cheap cologne as a body shifted next to hers.

The silence engulfed the park. The leaves ceased to sway in the wind, the distant laughter faded out into nothingness. Even the constellations about her seemed to hold their breath, twinkling in silence, waiting.

-You stole the stars from me, every single one of them. For more than 20 years I merely let them exist out there – they followed their usual paths and habits, I followed mine. Now they all whisper your name, a silent hush stretching across the night sky.