xtyn.
April 06, 2005, 11:29 a.m.
Stealthily I slip through her yard, fumbling for the key I know that she hides under the shoe. under the mailbox. under the carport. under the sky that she has forgotten to thank for covering her back. covering her ass for the past five years... the clouds quietly sit back, holding out their wispy arms to catch her when she falls. from the sky. again.
I am rifling through her belongings... searching for an admission ticket into the center stage. of the theater. of the mind I held so dear. so long ago.
She locks her arms around her knees. locks her eyes and swallows the key. memories like photographs, fading. faded. and then gone.
And I, too, have locked the door one last time... ground my thumbs into my eyes to avoid the windows' vacant glare. pressed my hands to the sides of my head, tripping over a year's worth of bad ideas and inconsistencies. i left. i let myself down again. i looked back. and saw nothing but my silence.
The phone bleats angry chirps of disconnection in the innocent coil of her ear. Cell phone. Long dead after a night spent screaming in the yard. Long dead after a night spent screaming at the end of the bar. ANOTHER, SIR. I'LL HAVE. ANOTHER. sir.
Not at this address the envelopes claim in some unrecognizable script. and then slap her in the face. From the mailbox. above the shoe. below the carport. below the clouds. that I am thanking. for covering my back. for covering my ass for the past five years.
And so I sit here... taunting her... waving the key jauntily from blackened fingertips...
Follow the chirping of the disconnected lines. Follow the path by dotting the i's.
The time looms near when she'll need me again. The time looms near that she'll find herself, attempting to lean on my shoulder. scouring through the wreckage where she last left me. scraping her hands on empty air.
You'll find me when you need me most. When even the clouds can't catch you. That's where I'll be. Scrambling to scrape up the bite-sized you pieces before the wind scatters them through the streets.
I hope that there is something left of you. Some pattern recognizable by the Picasso hipbones and the Geppeto eyes. Some faint breath whispering, here. That. That goes there.
And when all is said. and all is done. I can step back and look. And see the you that I remember.
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