I’m waking up again, over and over, to the slow slog of passion. This pit of communication knows no time frame, no ending date and there’s no expiration like milk or eggs. I’m not hurrying this time; not obsessing on your rooftop or watching through trees, instead I wait in the kitchen for the sound of the keys jangling and the door opening.
I’m breathing air finally and can smell your confusion and dissatisfaction – that blame we get for the apocalypse, the faint sweet of your pain. I know I left you there with those groceries, with that trunk full of paper bags…I have no excuse.
These are the only emotions that evoke expression through depression; the only time I write to you. If I could connect to these emotions more regular, you’d be sick of my baggage, my adage – these are the times of our lives, year after year of unrequited- oh, who am I kidding? Engaging you is just more of my violence.
You’ve proven that my assertion of asexuality untrue, shown my isolation a ruse. You’ve talked me into confidence finally after all, I thought it was all pressure and undue measure. I’m reluctant to retreat into my coma and lies and have now begun to face my empty fridge once again.
There’s no ghosts, no peripheral shadows, no shapes – the sky is not burnt orange and the landscape not scorched and dead. I realize I made it all up and created our armageddon to keep from having to tell you that I was scared of what I would become with or without you.
Everything you carry is so heavy and I didn’t do a damn thing to help you did I? No wonder you feel so hard and have bought so many groceries. Your kitchen is stacked, your counter overflowing with the rest of our lives and I can’t stop thinking about how long I could survive in your presence.
Go ahead, bring up the groceries, I’ll get the door for you this time, I promise.