I spend all of my time six feet below the earth’s surface. Actually, it’s only sixty-two inches below the surface. I had it put in my will; my nose was to be above ground if I was to stand up in my grave. It’s kind of silly, but I always had this fear of being buried alive. I thought that 10 inches closer to the surface would be a safe bet.
I spend a majority of my time decorating the coffin and making sure my fingernails are at perfect soil digging length. I spend the rest of my time thinking of the woman I left behind and writing down my memories and dreams for her.
I had a dream about us last night. We were just hanging out and goofing off. It was nice to see us back to how we were in June . . . even if it wasn’t real. We went to the local university and walked around for a bit, telling stories, wearing our sunglasses and begging for time to stand still, if only for a few hours.
We had only been together a week at that point, but we both knew it was love. It was more than a mere puppy could understand. I had never felt anything like that before and I was enthralled by it. By her. I sat on the bench in the shade. She danced in the fountain in front of me, her shoes on the rim and my heart in her hand. The wind came by and carried a cool mist from the soaked strands of her black hair away from the fountain and kept me cool while I fell in love.
I counted our footsteps back to my car and kissed her once for each one. My mouth was dry afterwards so we walked from my car to a building on campus. It was the Art and Architecture building and the doors weren’t locked on the weekends. It was dim in the building but it felt good to be out of the sun for a few minutes. I reached across the concession counter and stole a drink while she used the bathroom. I assume dancing in the fountain had caused her to have to go. When she came out of the bathroom I woke up, still alone.
It’s dreams like that that I will never be able to shake. They were so real, so perfect and so simply unforgettable. And it’s that girl that I will never be able to forget. Her kitten smile, her smell, her laugh. How she always embarrassed me when we went places. I miss watching her put on makeup. I miss seeing her face light up when she saw me. I can’t forget all the times I surprised her. I can’t forget anything about this girl, but I’m not sure if she can even remember me.
I leave off my return address when I mail her stuff. She knows where I’ve always been and if she wants she can find me. I died the day she sent me away. Car wreck. Crossed the median with my arms spread out, ready to fly. Ready to die.
I need something to fly over my grave again and let me know that I could be alive, to someone. I was buried with my lioness in my heart or at least my loneliness.
Coffins should come with better ventilation systems. It’s hard to bear smoking a cigarette when plush, silk pillows surround you. I could really use another cigarette right now. My heart sometimes sinks down to my stomach and the smoke helps to push it back into place.
I’ve been in here just short of five months. She’s the only thing I dream about and the only thing I miss. Well, to be completely honest, that first part could be a lie, but as far as I know it’s more honest than George Washington is on the one-dollar bill. I’m sure I’ve had thousands of dreams but the only ones I can remember are the ones where we’re together again. But we aren’t together again at the end of the week. I’ll pass out tonight and dream of her smiling as she covers her mouth with her right hand. I’ll pull out a camera and try to snap a picture. But she disappears before I can push the button. Besides, pictures tend to fade away over time, but memory is forever.
Perhaps she’ll stay in my crosshairs someday. Maybe another guy will kill her and we can be together. Or she’ll come back and decide dating someone who was once deceased isn’t so bad and try to make it work. She’ll save all of the letters I write her and cry to herself at night. I pray that I haunt her dreams, both day and night.
Even more so, I hope that she is happy without me. She deserves it. She deserves everything that we had those first two months and everything more I didn’t think I could give her.
The rain comes three times a week to wash the soil away. I’ll make sure it takes me with it next time.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Thursday, January 1, 2009
trial and error
As of late my breathing has been nothing more than trial and error. Jumping out of the bed at three in the morning, crying.
3:30 a.m. heavy breathing.
4:00 a.m. tears
4:30 a.m. heavy breathing.
4:49 a.m. bathroom.
5:00 a.m. tears
5:30 a.m. you get the general idea.
I’ve been mistaking strangers for friends and lovers for friends. The little amount of sleep I get takes place on the left side of my bed. I use to have trouble getting to sleep at night. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I would start in on stage one pre-hyperventilating type of breathing. The tears would sometimes follow, but after a short time, I could usually get to sleep. The nightmares were there, but for the most part, they were bearable.
I stopped having dreams when I was the age of six or seven. I didn’t believe in Santa Clause anymore, but I would have dreams around the end of December of him, shimmying his way down our chimney. They were nice and they were some of the last dreams I had, before the nightmares started.
A cousin on my fathers’ side of the family had just died and we had gone to his funeral that day. After that, I can’t really remember what might have made them start.
The phone rings. It’s my boss wondering where I am. “Sorry, I guess I overslept,” I tell him. I finish off a beer, grab my keys and I’m out the door.
I’m twenty-three now and I can’t tell you where the years have gone. I still feel eighteen in my heart, but not in my soul. I’ve been hurt really bad twice and you tend to grow up when woman leave. When family members leave. Friends.
I may be naive beyond words, but I believe I still have a soul. I haven’t lost it yet or given up on it. There are plenty of scratches on it. And dents. It gets rained on a lot and my mother never taught me how to do laundry.
Perhaps it’s the writer in me that wants to believe there is still good in people. Or maybe it’s the poet, we’re all poets or at least we think we are. I can’t really think of a single person that has never let me down, as sad as that is. Maybe that’s because I write and I have this childish belief that somehow I can understand everything before I really know anything about it. I hadn’t thought much in this way until a discussion with a dear friend of mine. As she put it, “we're writers. We daydream too much and it gets us into trouble. We create characters in our stories...and we create characters in our lives.” I think this covers situations, in addition to people. If I was as smart as I think I am, perhaps I wouldn’t be as lost. Perhaps I could still have dreams at night about little kids running through a front yard, carrying a red plastic chair.
I’m going to get in a wreck on of these days while I’m driving, due to my thinking. At times, I wish I could just work my forty hour work week, come home, drink a beer, watch TV, go to sleep, and not have this habit of thinking all of the time. So much that it’s distracting. Is your own impending demise easier to come to terms with when you don’t spend every waking moment thinking about it? And wondering how many people will show up to your funeral or if there really is a heaven?
I’ll have trouble getting to sleep tonight. And tomorrow night. And probably four weeks from now and three months from now.
And yet, the sun will still set at it’s regularly changing time tomorrow, the grass will grow and somebody will masturbate in a bookstore restroom.
I’m just here along for the ride, trying not to get hurt. Trying to continue breathing.
All my systems are coming up with errors.
3:30 a.m. heavy breathing.
4:00 a.m. tears
4:30 a.m. heavy breathing.
4:49 a.m. bathroom.
5:00 a.m. tears
5:30 a.m. you get the general idea.
I’ve been mistaking strangers for friends and lovers for friends. The little amount of sleep I get takes place on the left side of my bed. I use to have trouble getting to sleep at night. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I would start in on stage one pre-hyperventilating type of breathing. The tears would sometimes follow, but after a short time, I could usually get to sleep. The nightmares were there, but for the most part, they were bearable.
I stopped having dreams when I was the age of six or seven. I didn’t believe in Santa Clause anymore, but I would have dreams around the end of December of him, shimmying his way down our chimney. They were nice and they were some of the last dreams I had, before the nightmares started.
A cousin on my fathers’ side of the family had just died and we had gone to his funeral that day. After that, I can’t really remember what might have made them start.
The phone rings. It’s my boss wondering where I am. “Sorry, I guess I overslept,” I tell him. I finish off a beer, grab my keys and I’m out the door.
I’m twenty-three now and I can’t tell you where the years have gone. I still feel eighteen in my heart, but not in my soul. I’ve been hurt really bad twice and you tend to grow up when woman leave. When family members leave. Friends.
I may be naive beyond words, but I believe I still have a soul. I haven’t lost it yet or given up on it. There are plenty of scratches on it. And dents. It gets rained on a lot and my mother never taught me how to do laundry.
Perhaps it’s the writer in me that wants to believe there is still good in people. Or maybe it’s the poet, we’re all poets or at least we think we are. I can’t really think of a single person that has never let me down, as sad as that is. Maybe that’s because I write and I have this childish belief that somehow I can understand everything before I really know anything about it. I hadn’t thought much in this way until a discussion with a dear friend of mine. As she put it, “we're writers. We daydream too much and it gets us into trouble. We create characters in our stories...and we create characters in our lives.” I think this covers situations, in addition to people. If I was as smart as I think I am, perhaps I wouldn’t be as lost. Perhaps I could still have dreams at night about little kids running through a front yard, carrying a red plastic chair.
I’m going to get in a wreck on of these days while I’m driving, due to my thinking. At times, I wish I could just work my forty hour work week, come home, drink a beer, watch TV, go to sleep, and not have this habit of thinking all of the time. So much that it’s distracting. Is your own impending demise easier to come to terms with when you don’t spend every waking moment thinking about it? And wondering how many people will show up to your funeral or if there really is a heaven?
I’ll have trouble getting to sleep tonight. And tomorrow night. And probably four weeks from now and three months from now.
And yet, the sun will still set at it’s regularly changing time tomorrow, the grass will grow and somebody will masturbate in a bookstore restroom.
I’m just here along for the ride, trying not to get hurt. Trying to continue breathing.
All my systems are coming up with errors.
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