Tears are salty. They leave lines on my cheeks like spilt tea that runs down the sides of cabinets. They run down the sides of my nose. I have my father's nose. They make tracks through wrinkles and limp smile lines and and linger on my chin before falling into my lap. They make my eyes appear more blue, like the sky after a storm. There were more than six hundred tornados in April. They are universal. Meaning without language. They are not good for driving. Blurry yellow lines and foggy green lights. They make me feel human. Breathe.
I miss you. Knowing that you could see me, that you could hear me, that you could feel my finger as you held it - squeezing so tight. I need you. I'm falling apart without you. I'm so terrified that my memories will fade, that I won't remember your eyes - bright as blue sky on a sunny day, driving across beautiful prairie, wind in my hair. Your fur. The way you purred in my ear, and wrapped your thin little arms around my neck.
I would kill to feel your arms around my neck.
But I'll never really say goodbye.
We talked about the horrible things we've done. The appalling things. The wretched things. Ugly moments from awful times where nothing was right and gravity was just another weight on our shoulders. We said words we didn't mean. Well, we meant them. Just not to the people they were directed at. We meant them for ourselves.
I have something to say. There are words for what I have to say, somewhere. They've just fallen out of my lips and ears and eyes and now I'm just sweating. I feel sickly. Do I look sickly? Look down. Look up. Look up and to the left. Find a word to carry over the silence. A language appetizer. "Well.." Couldn't think of anything better than "well.."? You're pathetic. Laugh a little. Oh god that's not the right mood at all. Now he's not going to take you seriously. He has gorgeous eyes. No. Fuck. We're here with a job to do. Long silence again, say something, idiot. "You see..." Well that's just great. Now we actually have to follow up with words. Real words. English words. Or not English words? How about Swedish words. Do you know Swedish words? You can say "thank you" but I really don't feel like that's going to work. Oh, now he's asking what's wrong. "I think we need to talk." Oh aren't you good at this. There you go, stating the obvious. "Something is wrong," Well now it sounds like you're dying. Bi-polar disorder. Schizophrenia. Kidney disease. Depression. Atrial fibrillation. Heart attack. Now is not the time to be a hypochondriac. Now also isn't the time to pretend to be something I'm not. I need to see you. I need reassurance. I need consistency.
I've rehearsed this in my head a thousand times. I know it doesn't change anything. I hurt you so badly. Oblivious to the choices I had before me. I made mistakes. Did things I'll never be able to take back. And I'm almost positive I'll never stop missing you.
I hate Willy Lowman. He isn't charismatic, realistic or loving. He isn't honest, well-liked or fair. He's lost with a map he refuses to look at. He's in a rainstorm with an unopened umbrella. At sea without a life jacket. I can't admire that. Masochism. Sacrifice for what? For grace? Dignity? No. There's no dignity in dying a preventable death. There's no respect deserved for demise brought upon by a chronic case of selective hearing. Willy Lowman makes me fear getting older. Willy Lowman reminds me the importance of dreams, and finding reality. Willy Lowman reminds me of how it feels to wake up every morning, and go to bed every night, with the same unidentifiable pain. The kind you get when you have unrequited love, when you suffer by your own mistakes, when you lie to someone you love. Even if you're never caught.
"After all the highways, and the trains, and the appointments, and the years, you end up worth more dead than alive." - Arthur Miller
Vulnerability is terrifying. Especially with those who haven't always been the most cautious with such delicate human complexes. I'm fragile fragile fragile. Bubble wrap and styrofoam peanuts. Blankets and tissue paper. Fitted boxes and corrugated cardboard. Hugs and sweet touches.
That's the worst feeling in the world. When you lay your soul out on the table, like the dummy in a game of bridge. Card for card, heart for heart. And all your insides are left feeling empty, torn out, filtered through. There's a cavity in your chest, filling with fluid, drowning with every minute that goes by. Suddenly you feel your feet, they're freezing cold. And you notice something that seems like it should be your soul, falling down from your throat, through your chest, into your stomach. It's nauseating. I'm nauseated.
When is it my turn to do something beautiful?
You're losing me.
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