In a Dream

In a dream, I was beautiful to you.

Your eyes, wide and alive. Never moving away. Into mine.

Your smile was the picket fence. The dream. The only desire. And it was for me.

To me.

Because of me.



In a dream.

In a dream, I was the only other thing in yours.

Glowing and endless and warm and safe.

And your hand on my skin, and the pull of you. Your breath on my chest then and the smell of your hair and serenity.

In a dream.

In a dream, nothing could end.

In a dream.

Four A.M. Roof Vignette

It's around four.

I think.

The dark will dissolve soon into pale blue, a serene warning of day. My feet dangle off the ledge, four stories up. My bag next to me, one beer left in it. My notebook is still missing but I'm writing on scraps of paper I stole from the bar earlier and they are scattered around me and I hope I remember to pick them up. I will forget and they will soon blow away, off of this roof and into the air, landing in trees and streets and nowhere. I see the metaphor, I don't care for it. I open the beer. Drink.

A world of dark forever and the soft, content hum of alcohol. Forever. Please.

Voices and I look. Two people hold hands on the road below me. Maybe drunk, but walking smooth enough. The girl pulls close to the man and rests her head on his shoulder and he kisses the top of her head and they are speaking, but too quiet for me to make it out. He puts his arm around her and I hope they feel that way tomorrow. I hope they feel that way forever. I would fall from here if I could guarantee them that. If I could guarantee them either one.

They fade into the dark and that cavern inside of me yawns and shifts and I drink.

I have unbuttoned my shirt and my hair is pinned back, wild and greasy, under my sunglasses. If I were to fall right then, it would be clear to anyone what had really happened. Four stories high, a mess of a person, scraps of paper.

Drink and my mind wanders and my heart remains still.

I slide back onto the roof, away from the ledge. It's time to leave. Wrong mood for a ledge now.

I pick up a few of the papers, and I thought there were more. I finish my beer and put the empty in my bag and find the hatch I crawled up here through. Lift. Get in. Climb backward down the ladder and hope my shoes don't slip and I go crashing down the ladder and then the stair case. It had happened a few weeks ago and for an instant then I blacked out and was dizzy for an hour but I was fine. The memory makes my anxiety flair and I shove it down. I make it to the stairs, and after a few flights, the door, and I slip out of the building into the fading dark. My head is swimming with envy and emptiness and a gallon of wine and beer and whiskey.

I begin the mile hike to my bed. I wish I had one more beer. I wish I had one more hour of dark. I...

Shut up. 

I shut up.

I walk and let the emotion drain from me and now I am just another shadow on the street. My eyes slide over the road and yards and trees and streetlamps and I see none of it. Distantly I am aware that the pale blue has begun and I am nearly home.

I see nothing.

From some window, from some doorway, from some roof, I may be watched and I may be wished for, and I may be fallen for.

Fool.

I crash through the front door and throw my bag across the floor. Go to the fridge and open a beer. The blue has faded and daylight is here. I stand at my sink and stare out the window at the backyard, at the neighbors back yard, beyond. I drink the beer and another and someone recently asked me how I am still alive, and I have no fucking idea.

I go to the computer and I write this.

We Begin

I'm concious.

Waking.

Eyes still closed and then I realize I am making an effort to keep them closed and my head still spins from the night and my mouth is dry and my body aches and I remember I am angry.  I feel you next to me. The weight of you, inches and miles from me and you are neither close or far enough and I'm still making the effort of darkness in both respects.

But, I'm not angry. I remember I am supposed to be and I remember why. I feel nothing now. Again. Back to normal.

I have to piss but I want to be unconcious.

Moments pass and I feel you wake. Your breathing changes. I imagine you didn't sleep well, but I did. You shuffle off the end of the bed and use the bathroom  and you leave and I lay there, eyes closed, lying and lying.

I hear the door slide across the carpet. Open, closed. You left the room and I think that now I can take the costume off. I can piss and you won't see me. You won't know I am here and I get out of bed, dizzy and fine, and use the bathroom. The fucking en suite, which I hated having but was usually pretty goddamned thankful for (alcoholics need three things; alcohol, a place to sleep, and a close place to piss).

I want to know where you went. Apparently I'm still looking for trouble. I put pants on because I'm afraid of being seen for who I am. I know I'm shit, but you don't see the right shit. No one does, so I put pants on and maybe you'll take me seriously this time. Maybe you'll know what I mean. Maybe... maybe I'm just peacocking.

I slide open the door and I know wherever you are you hear it. Like the bell for class. Like the new ticket printer in the kitchen. Like the sound of Dad's car pulling in the driveway or the sound of the beer I'm going to open, echoing through the house screaming "HERE HE GOES".

The house is lit well and I don't know what time it is, or care, but it is probably around noon and you aren't in the first two rooms I look in and I think to myself that that is a ridiculous thought to have and I think I should burn the fucking house down and I think to myself I should sit in it as it does and I think to myself I would listen to Chopin in my headphones while my skin melts from me and my nerve endings die. I think to myself that I already am burning my house down. Slowly.

I go into the kitchen as you are leaving it and your face says you didn't hear me. You were unprepared. A sadness. A fear. An anger. This is what I have done to you. This is what I have done. I ignore the flash of emotion. I make eye contact and go to the sink. Pour a glass of water. You don't leave. You are standing behind me. I drink the water, looking out the window, at the leaves, the neighbors yard, the September day. Set the glass in the sink. Leave the kitchen. I don't even see you.

This is what I have done.

Mister too cool. Mister artist.

Child. Brat. Garbage.

I lie down and feel the temperature of the air against my skin. I feel the disorienting motion slide off of my brain and I sink into the bed and I only want sleep.

The door slides across the carpet and you turn the light on. The interrogation light.

We make eye contact and you are ready now. The fight.

I remember I am supposed to be angry, but I don't feel anything. Emotional whiskey dick.

You slide into bed and sit upright while I lay there.

I feel your eyes bore into me and I look at you.

"So...", you say.

We begin.