What's Left

I lie, face down on the floor.  The incandescent glow from the shrine merely warms the darkness in the room.  I'm not sure how long I have been here.  I turn to my side and look out the window.  The moon lingers there, in the orange-black sky, laughing.  I am only semi-conscious, now.  I turn again and look down at the floor, where my notebook lies, wide open, spotted with dampness from tears and saliva.  Words, words - incoherent from pain - rest on the blue lines.  I am more conscious, now.  I turn again.

The tape recorder - at my feet.  I rewind the tape, and then press the "play" button:

"Tuesday, September 15th, 1987. . .  I can't come to a single damned conclusion about my life. . ."

I stop the tape and get up.  I stagger toward the bathroom, running my fingers through my hair - unkempt in the usual way.  I stop in front of the mirror, try to understand that that thing in the reflection is me, but it seems so unreal, so sad, so empty.  It doesn't respond to me, staring.  I look down into the sink and I feel - I feel like I'm inside a bubble gum bubble.  The pressure increases and the walls expand, and suddenly, everything around me bursts.  The walls of the bubble collapse onto me.  I am surrounded by the sticky aftermath.  I start to tug and pull everything away from me, but I'm all caught up in it, and pretty soon, I'm flailing about wildly, like an animal in a net, and I'm beginning to suffocate -

I look up.  Her lips are moving.  Her words are vague and incoherent.  That feeling in my stomach and my throat returns, or maybe I've just now noticed it again.  I wish I could have it surgically removed.  She's babbling.  She's mad.  I turn away and leave her.

I walk back over to the shrine - that last, tangible remnant of the world we built together.  We built a cage, you see.  And we had two birds.  When I left him the first time, his bird died.  I removed the stick that had been theirs, together, and I kept it as a memorial.  I lived alone with my bird.  This time when I left him, my bird escaped, out the window.  No one left.  Just an empty cage with a light, just the shell of a home that we once shared.  And then one day, the cage was gone, too - thrown out by the man I believed I had left him for.  When I found out, I cried.  No birds, no home - there was nothing left.  My brother put together a shrine, using the light and some beads.  And as I stand and stare at the light, I think, "Well, at least there is that. . ."

I walk back over to the tape recorder and press the "play" button:

"I have been away from him for one month, now.  It's just like the last time.  The first month is okay, and then I'm ready to go back.  I'm finding it harder and harder to remember why I left him. . ."

I know why I left him, and I don't want to remember.  All I want is the love back.  ["I know it would be suicide to try to go back again, but I can't stand thinking about the alternatives, thinking about all of the never agains and no mores. . ."]

I've got to admit to myself that I used the other guy to keep my mind off of the fact that he had his mind on someone else.  I used the other guy as a safety device, so I wouldn't have to hurt so bad when or if I was cheated on.  I didn't know this until just now.  I thought it was love and passion and a new beginning.  ["I thought that I was doing the best thing by starting over, but it turns out there's really nothing there to work with.  He can't even tell me how he feels.  He loves me too much, and all I can do is hurt him.  It's making me numb.  So numb inside. . ."]

I turn off the tape recorder.  I take a deep breath and try to clear my head.  It's going to be a while before I start moving forward again.  It's all so fucked up, now.  I breathe.  Somewhere inside, I am thankful just for breath.  I find my trench coat and my keys in the corner of the couch, and I leave the apartment.

The night is warm, but breezy.  The moon is descending toward the horizon, and I am numb.

(fall '87)