Saturday, January 15, 2011

pomegranate

You're walking down the dirt road again. And I'm watching you leave again. This must be the hundredth time, I swear. I don't call your name. And you don't look back. We play our parts so well, repeated to perfection. I know you'll be back, so after I watch you disappearing, a dot swaying back and forth, I open the door and go back inside the house.

We should both know by now the old routine of it. You always leave the morning after we make love. It happens spontaneously, like a flame from a match. Our eyes meet and we both get that look and then we can't breathe because our lips aren't letting the air escape. Your flesh burns to my flesh and my hands run up and down your body. And as we move as one, the air above us combusts and we burst into flame.

And then the morning after, you leave. You say you're scared that what happened last time would happen again. You'd forget about your walls and little cracks would creep up the bricks. While you're sleeping, I would climb in your mind and chisel away at the mortar and I'd make a hole big enough so I could squeeze through. And what I'd find there...we don't speak of that. So, in the morning, I offer you breakfast, and over the cup of coffee, you tell me the age-old lie My mother's sick. Six feet under the ground sick.

Remember that night when you woke up screaming and I held you as you rocked back and forth asking me Do I exist? Do you exist? and I'd reassure you that we both did exist. If nothing else, we existed. But you wouldn't be calmed down. What if we don't exist? And what if we don't? The world would still go on without us, and isn't that the hardest fact to bear? That, in reality, we are meaningless and we don't matter at all? That if we died right now, nobody would care at all and the universe would still go loping around?

I think that's why you do drugs. You want to convince yourself that you matter. After I told you I wouldn't care until you cared, you started to do beautifully nicknamed drugs like snow white ice queen or moon or crystal butterfly. And after a day or two, you'd come to me and say I found God. He's hiding. He's scared. I talked to him. He wants to come out but he doesn't know if we'd like him or not. He's really just a boy who doesn't know what to do. You'd tug on my sleeve and ask me to come on a trip with you. It'll be like nothing you've done before.

And it wasn't. I can't describe it. You'd have to try for yourself. But I have to say, it was nothing like making love to you. It was almost comparable, but nothing beats burning alive.

When I told you that last night, you made that face that means you're angry and said I don't like burning. I like crashing and rolled over and went to sleep.

You're walking down the dirt road again. And I'm watching you leave again. I don't call your name. And you don't look back. I know you're off to go find another drug and to have another conversation with God again. You'll find other men and ways to to extract pity from poor fools.

But you'll be back. I'm the best crash around and you know it.

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