Weak-willed

Hairline fracture crackling and splintering spreading like a malignant blood clot constricting cranial veins to the point of passing out. My glass house, the armor I erected to somehow protect me from myself is crumbling down around my ears. The moat has run dry and my defenses have been compromised.

I lay here in the dark watching witching-hour shadows dance on the bedroom wall. Circling headlights and the pale moon shining through like a flashlight beam. Like some insolent fuck I thought I might have had it all finally figured out… but my so called “strength” covers these gaping wounds like a soggy band-aid.

Above the dim ringing that heralds the arrival of mordant deprivation bulimic starvation, I hear your barely audible whisper. A pitch black shadow slouching in a creaking old chair, undead eyes affixed on mine.

When I was little I used to sleep with the blanket wrapped tightly around my head. I’d lie on my side and breathe through a small hole, encased in a cocoon. I naively thought I’d be protected from the bogeyman. I thought he’d quietly pass like a ship in a silent fog. I’d watch him float by my window as he worked his way down the dark street and then slip into a gutter.

Back to now. My mouth tastes like a fistful of rusted pennies. Dilated eyes fight back smarting tears. I realize I can no longer hide for I have become that which I despised and feared. With a soft creak I sneak out the back door, limp past parked cars and hungry street dogs, a grainy spectre flickering in and out of focus, not quite in this plane, but very real. A silent apparition nosferatu with hair falling out in clumps, bulging eyes, and protruding cheeks.

And I trickle like water disappearing into the dark city. My hand forever in yours.

I need you. I hate you so fucking bad and I hate myself worse because I know I cannot exist without you in my life. In your absence I am hollow. A “gebbeth” - borrowed flesh.

Beautiful Love

My world is small; my tiny, miserable world. My kingdom of dirt. Staring at the stars as the west wind blows. Silence, save the flapping of my shirt. Tears roll off my face and disappear into the sky. I wonder where you are. What do you see? Do you see the same dreams as me?

You probably wouldn’t recognize me now. I look the same except for my vacant eyes. I helplessly grope about in the dark. Every day that passes you slip farther and farther away into the lands of myth. Sometimes I wonder if you even existed. I wonder if I even existed. I can't help but think these thoughts on days like this when the wind blows and stirs the barren asphodel fields like swirling snow.

I wonder if you existed and I despair. I watch my hope wither and die and crumble away into dust. Then it happens. In that pivotal moment when I’ve lost all hope. It’s so faint but it’s undeniably there and I pause for a second and close my eyes and breathe it in. For an instant. Like when I used to walk along the beach with my grandpa searching the sands for seashells, wonderful treasures, that have washed up on shore carried countless miles along the tide. An instant only, I turn around and I feel your beating heart beneath the crystal stars as I stare into space. An instant. Your scent, your blessedly sweet scent I once committed to memory as we’d sleep, my face buried in your hair. Carried countless miles along the world’s wind. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. An instant.

blurry headlights

I had lunch today at “our” place. You know, the little sushi restaurant we used to eat at almost every single day - once upon a time. Of course, it wasn’t the same. The front patio was closed because of the rain so I sat inside in a dimly lit corner booth. I ordered the usual assortment of rolls we’d always order along with a pitcher of hot sake. All around me sat giggling couples. I felt out of place. Not so much because I was there alone but because I was so sad. Maybe it was the rain.

You know I used to love the rain. Whenever it thundered outside I remember how we would spend the entire day underneath your down comforter making love over and over and over again. We’d lie there, glistening in sweat, gazing into each other’s eyes. You’d trace the shadows on my body with your index finger as we both listened to the cascading storm drum against your bedroom window.

As I sat there today in our restaurant absently poking at my food I thought I heard you say my name. I looked up and of course you weren’t there. The lights dimmed for a split-second as a heavy peal of thunder lumbered across the sad, gray sky.

I am hollow.

Delerium

I remain still as a statue and listen with an open mind and a dead heart. My mouth is dry and I can hear the approaching march... the inevitable advance of a million pin-prick wasp stings as the need to shoot-up begins to spread throughout my body.

The old man pulls an infinite slow-drag from his pipe, holds the smoke in his lungs as he stares upward at the night sky with haunted eyes, then exhales two long streams through his nose. His attention remains fixed on a distant heavenly object known only unto him as around us crickets chirp. His brows squint as though he is in engaged in thoughtful concentration - or cumbersome pain. His pupils swell and then shrink to the size of shimmering diamonds. I try to remain here in the moment but it's difficult. The old man's gnarled body is steadily disappearing as though I am being whisked away on a train at a great velocity and there he remains standing alone at the end of a barren tunnel. And the world is sleeping. A light breeze rustles the asphodel creating a swirling faux snowstorm of tiny white petals. Minutes turn into seconds as each moment is crystallized... morphing reality into dream.

Listening. Waiting.

Tiny beads of sweat begin to form on my brow. My blood rages with piercing fire and my veins throb for more junk. I’m in full-fledged fiend mode now. My smarting eyes are starting to tear but I continue to remain still. Behind my back my hands continue to clench and unclench keeping time with the rhythm of my jaw.

He slowly turns and meets my anxious, expectant stare.

“ So you do not fear death?”

I pause, careful to choose the correct words. “ I am already dead sir. I have no fears... except one.”

I’m stuck in his gaze, under his spell, as a struggling hare is trapped in a hunter’s snare. My blood is boiling and I blink several times to fight back tears. I work to remain in this realm but I’m slowly phasing in and out. I look down and my toes are shimmering mirages.

“ You are afraid she will forget?”

“ No. I am afraid she will walk past me never once looking up, and there I will be, in limbo, and my existence will have meant absolutely nothing.”

The old man looks away, snickers for a moment as though amused at a private joke. “ Right now your existence does in fact mean nothing. You are but a drop in the comprehensive ocean of men’s dealings... and you are a miserable fool.”

I swallow hard and with a defiant hiss I whisper:

“ Then so be it... this path I have chosen I will stumble.”

The Elysian Fields

Whenever I close my eyes I see it: an unmistakable, indelible image fixed in my crumbling memory. Even while awake and lucent it is undoubtedly there waiting for me like a lifeless shadow slumped in a dark corner as the firelight flickers and dances. And it shall forever remain until the day comes when I close my eyes for the last time and finally let go.

It is a place they call Elysium. I can only describe it as a land where the sun never sets nor rises, where it is eternally dusk and the sky is saturated with fantastic hues of red and gold. Rolling fields of billowy yellow grass strum the wind as leaves scatter like playful children whom yearn for winter to never arrive. They say on the outer edge of Elysium is an ancient, decrepid wall made of stone that spans endless miles in each direction. Beyond this wall lies the kingdom of Hades. Persephone, daughter of Zeus and Demeter, rules Elysium with a heavy crown and her tears, tears shed while imprisoned away from her distant home, are the gray bricks that constitute this wall. If one were to stop and listen to the whispering wind one could hear the tormented drone of a million souls that lie on the other side whom all patiently wait for their beloved.

I have seen Elysium. With half-closed eyes and an empty, skeletal gaze I have seen this wall as the junk flowed into my heart. I have felt the cool breeze as the exquisite poison soothed my twitching body. I have heard the pleading cries in the dull stillness between sluggish, hollow beats.

Elysium beckons.

Patience

I miss you. I miss every nuance of you… wholly, brilliant, beautiful you. Do you remember how we’d spend every night laying in bed talking? You and I, we could do just that… talk… about whatever and it was never forced. Around you I could truly be me because you knew me and loved me and accepted me without conditions, every part of me: the good, the bad, and the scary.

Several weeks ago I overdosed on extasy.

Darkness enveloped me and for an instant I imagined myself in our bed asleep in your arms. Your haunting eyes pierced my self-erected, rusty armor and we spoke to each other. Somewhere far away you slept and we spoke. Astral projection. We met for a second as whispering ghosts and enveloped each other fusing as one flickering soul. The dark waters of the river Styx washed over us, beckoning us to stay forever selfishly in love and I wanted to stay with you so fucking bad. I held on so tight, I wouldn’t let go. I could feel you holding on to me right back.

I wouldn’t let you go.

Bright lights slowly materialized overhead and I found myself swathed in white linen with tubes jutting out of my arm. With a deep inhalation, unable to speak, I helplessly lay there as tears streamed down my face and my body convulsed with muffled, anguished sobs. Between the dull beeps of the hospital equipment, between those half-second infinite spaces abysmal half-truths, I could still hear us there in the dark.

...

I promise you if I die first I will patiently wait there for you.

Revisitation

I keep having these recurring dreams. Or rather, should I say, they’re different dreams cast in a wide array of different colors set in different places but they all share one common element... one continuous theme coiled tightly around these fitful dreams like a malicious tumor... you. It’s as though nothing ever happened between us and we are happily in love and everything in the world is so profoundly beautiful.

In my dream, you’re clean. Fuck, we both are. In my dream there are no secrets.

And then I wake up and inevitably wish I was dead so somehow my dream would continue.

Let me make one thing perfectly clear. I don’t regret yesterday, only tomorrow and today. I cannot stand the thought of spending another second without you. And I know you feel the exact same way. I heard it from someone who heard it from someone else. I felt it too, across the expanse.

Whenever I sit alone on my porch, smoking a Lucky Strike, I carefully watch the city lights. Every night I look for a sign.

“Do you know why the lights twinkle the way they do?”

“Is it the smog?” You curiously ask in your cute Russian accent.

“No, it’s not the smog.”

We can’t be together because it is impossible. I’ve been told by people who care that if I care enough I can make the impossible possible. Perhaps I can but I won’t. I won’t because I am afraid. I’m scared shitless. The sky is falling and the bogeyman is hiding in the closet and you’ve changed. We both have. I left you because of what you became and now, well... I'm a joke.

My heart is black as hell is cold.

“So why do the lights twinkle?!” You persist, interrupting my train of thought.

“Tuzik, what causes the lights to twinkle is people throughout the entire city either turning their lights on or turning their lights off,” I quietly explain.

I carefully watch the city lights. Every night I look for a sign that will never appear.

Yet I continue to search.

You

I absently stir my glass. It's a conditioned reflex. I have to keep my hands constantly moving these days. I have to keep doing... stuff. Whether it be smoking a cigarette, fumbling with my collar, or toying with my cell phone, I have to stay busy. It's an obsession now - one of many. The busier I stay, the better I'm able to forget... even if it's momentarily.

Then there's the drugs. Rusty heroin needles sliding into scabby veins whisper into my ears promising a release from the pain. A release from hallucinogenic, haunted memories dating back to a much happier time I long ago tried to bury in the ground and forget.

yesterday... all my troubles seemed so far away

It's not easy. To have stupidly walked from true love like a fucking scared-shitless asshole. I tell myself we'll see each other again after we die. And perhaps we will, that is...

if you'll take me.