visitors

It has been awhile since you have been with me in dreams; so much so, i had mistakenly believed it was over. Dreams remember what you forget. I walk into your kitchen, we make small talk, but you are kind, happy, animated as you prepare some food. As i sit, The Sea walks in from school, gives me an odd look of "What are you doing here?" and i respond, tell her something to the effect of, "Don't worry, you're still special to me." Next we leave the house and drive, leaving The Sea behind. Even as we drive, you are very friendly- i note that your hair is long, as it was before. We stop at a building, go inside and ascend wooden stairs. i do not recall what we do, just your talking, the song of your voice. We note that it is 5:30 and better get back to the house, where The Sea, presumably, waits. As we descend the stairs, you gesture for me to pick you up and carry you, as a groom carries a bride. i do, noting to myself how light you are, something in contrast to Noire. i carry you down and outside, where there is a small beach. You become very touchy, and my confusion rises...i do not want this, i do want this, i do not....i need to be faithful to Noire, and comment that we shouldn't. You laugh, and say, "But you're so much fun to touch!" A smile as wide as the sun's arms at sunrise on your face. i slip back into this world, surprised at my disappointment that the dream ended. As before, i so want to go back in, but burn with shame at that.

fruitless

The man is in her home, in a way only dreams can justify; she acknowledges him kindly, vaguely. He watches her with their youngest daughter, and he scans the walls hoping not to find signs of Him. The walls are covered with children's artwork, none of which imply Him.

Then they are on a small, wooden go cart like vehicle turning onto a street of friendly modest houses on a warm summer evening. They face one another..the vehicle seems to ride along on its own. The man says, "I think the first time you are truly in love is when you are..." and they say "twelve," together. Recognizing the jinx, and they look up to the sky to find the one star to wish upon. There are hundreds.

He embraces her, contentedly, and she returns the embrace. He quietly says, "Don't leave, please" into her neck, but it is too late. 5:16 AM is calling for no reason.

operating table part two

We are boarding a bus to attend an event that is around The Land, school or an extra curricular activity. She is 6, and although it is clear that we are divorced there is no sign of your significant other nor The Sea. The bus fills quickly- we sit on the right side, and i can see the faces of those sitting on the left side. One of the women gives The Land candy; when I look, her lap is overflowing with all varieties, and she settles for a small bag of plain M&M's. We have a friendly discussion as the bus drives to its destination.

The next scene i remember is after the event is over. We are standing in a hallway or lobby, like one you would find at a theatre; about four other people stand with us. The wall behind me is curved plaster, and lights hang intermittently from the ceiling. You move your face in close to my left cheek, kissing me softly three times; i recoil, plead, "You can't do that."

I awaken to a silent, dark bedroom, save the chirping of peepers in the early summer morning. The ripples of the dream then wash over me, and i can't stop the wave of tears that come- sad that the dream ended so suddenly, before i could get a few more moments with you, sad at how pathetic i am.

How long will this last?

third easter

At times there is a glimmer, some indication of what we were. i drop the girls off to you, and you lapse into some story about their homework, or ask me to check out a play that you have just seen. The recipe of your movements is there, and i wonder if they will finally, finally, evoke a sweetness of memory, but they do not. Instead, the usual distress comes.

i want nothing to do with you, and yet why do i sink my teeth into your memories?

It is difficult recalling you now. I look back over these entries, and see that I have captured it all.

Something inside protests; it suggests there must be something else. But I am tired of you, the burden of your amazing eyes, the funeral song of your words.

The lack of posts does not indicate a lapse in your presence within me. I had hoped it would, but your existence still disturbs my days, my nights- it's just that it doesn't add up to a memory that can be recorded here.


Instead, the struggle is this: i hate you and want you to leave me spiritually, like you have left me in every other way, but in that wish is trepidation of what i will do when you're gone.

You are not worth this much energy- i wasted 11 years on you and hoped i would not a second more.

pallette

I should have known it was a bad idea; and, as with all bad ideas, I embraced the chance to immerse myself fully.


Your ghost walked beside me, looking at flats of purple and yellow... the selection was minimal, and now I know why we would visit more than one store. I have to fight to not buy flowers that you would buy, to not lay them out as you would. It is hard; your sense of aesthetics is subtly pleasing, somehow brilliant in a low volume.

Damn your art, and damn you.