Saturday, April 14, 2018

Highpoint lowpoint

Liz says bedrooms are for sex and sleeping.
Today it's for sleeping. You are gone.
Gone to the land of furniture, to cha cha with chairs
and tango with tables. Gone from my arms to the
other side of the world to hide behind armoirs and armchairs.
Gone. Just plain gone.  

But I still look for you. Hoping to find your scent
on the pillow next to me or a stray shoe behind the couch.
I seek you in the kitchen cupboards but all I find is tynenol
and aspirin. I take one thinking it will comfort my
aching heart. A pill can't talk. Can't look at me. It sits on my
tongue as a silent reminder that you aren't here. 

The downstairs is quiet, too quiet. I turn to the television. Figures move on the screen but I'm soon asleep to seek you out in dreams. 

We are young again. We're kissing in a car at the South Coast Plaza. You lean heavily against me. We are children with taut skin an firm resolve. Our bodies heave and lurch. Lips touch. Life beacons ahead. We'll need lots of love for our future. But today there
is just love, a car and a parking garage. 

That all seems like yesterday. But today you are gone. 
Maybe you'll call. Your voice will dance in the sunlight. 
Your cheery smile will warm me. We'll laugh and hold hands and live will once again be good.