A switch hits, back in reverse. I hold onto the clutch of my heart and it breaks. The tears run like a river of change but I’m right back to where I started. The grief still stifles me, oddly enough I can take a good physical beating, scratched and bruised and bleeding all over the place but my heart can’t emerge unscathed from the emotional journeys, everything quakes inside of me like a volcano about to erupt. I’m stuck in nightmares lately, the haunting ugly shades of them. I’m on the couch sobbing uncontrollably, till I grab a mirror just to see if my skin looks as red and burning as it feels. Fuck it feels so bad, like the first moments I heard of his death. I’m stuck inside this foreign paradise in my dreams where he is alive, talking to me on that rock by the bomb fire telling me we’ll be together – and I awake angry, and anxious.
All my friends have lovers, boyfriends or girlfriends and I can’t seem to tame the longing inside of me. The self destruction phase of his death is over, the trying to grapple with it when it makes no sense. Someone so young could die so soon. I miss him every fucking day, every day. I wish someone would have told me the pain wouldn’t disperse that it would only increase – sometimes I find myself screaming like an wild woman, a werewolf at no one and nothing in particular just the glow of his smile lingers in my mind and it breaks through like an shade of sunshine on a gloomy day. His car pulling up beside me, his head tilting to look at me with so much power of love I never knew how to hold it. I am covered in a window of white, a widow of some sorts for there is way he knew me no one else will. There are burdens lovers disperse on you with conditions but he never held any, and maybe it was I who made too big a deal of his shortcomings but we were young, and love is idealistic and centric to your life then. There is nothing else to hold you.
I listen to Led Zeppelin in the back of my mind, holding the remnants of our summers together, my back pressed along his hard chest, his shoulders carrying all my weight. The way he smelled like soap even after gym class, or the way he’d pat me on the head just to annoy me. The way we’d strum pot stricken lips and hands across each other, and how he’d make me laugh till I cried in fits. We broke each other’s hearts every summer, every winter, and would come back together like two puzzle pieces matched to work under any circumstance the birch of wood fought us. His grave is wet with snow, sunken into the ground where his body lays and I perch my feel there where only that rests the rest of him is with me somewhere, making me laugh sometimes, or sing and dance around my room. He’s with me while I write this book and so I think of him more often now – but I cringe when people press the word time. Time is only one essence of a symmetry of movement and my heart will never grasp the loss of a love who I could see sleep or shower.
We ran tracks on each other’s backs, and mimicked those ugly stories that betray your heart but like everything else I make headway because of his love for me. I suppose the darkness is only a part of the lightness in other days to come. For now my heart stands still, darkened and corroded. It is what it is, and one day maybe the pain will lesson by cementing my heart with another but I don’t imagine I will ever be as innocent or as pure in thought and expression as I was with him. He took the brute of my selfishness, and directness and still stumbled towards me like a moving train, never stopping, never looking back. He took my heart in his and hung onto it – till the day he died. If only the guilt would settle in my heart so that I could grieve properly. I wish he would have come to me, like all the days of childhood and romance instead of taking it all into his own unlawful hands. When you love someone you miss of them the most mundane things, the way their breath smelled when they kissed you or the lurch of their teeth when they talked. For him the things run an endless mile of memories. His stealthy body jumping out my bedroom window, and making me scream and throw myself towards it till he bounced up smiling at me with wondrous eyes. We all have first loves don’t we? The temperament of children but we never expect them to die. I hate this word, death – die. They breed together like water on ice and I want to rip them apart and wrap them in life, life, life.
The desire to runaway is quickening in my system, and if I weren’t writing this novel I would melt away somewhere, run away from this city, from this town that holds way too much of it. Who will love me more than the world I travel? A friend said this recently, and it got me thinking is it that I can’t accept love because the world gives me so much more than what a lover can – or is that my heart has just become a stone wall and even knocking it down with a bowling ball wouldn’t trigger an solution. We all close up for other reasons, embark on different journeys of the heart because of it but mine is restless and broken for even before this I was a wreck in this department now I’m just a raging fever of madness, and betrayal afraid everyone I love will be whisked away someday to a faraway land I can’t get to till life finalizes my time. I’ve got to believe we will meet again, somewhere – sometime otherwise I’d never awake from my nightmarish dreams and settle into a deep slumber where death and life converge.