January 28, 2006

I think that right now I feel exactly like he must. My house is almost dark, lit only by the TV screen where I was watching Garden State. I stepped out side to smoke and I was totally alone. I felt like a shot in a movie. Zooming in and speeding away all at once to leave me isolated. Unlit, no stars, no movement. Just me in a nearly still night, only enough breeze to pull the smoke away from me and leave me even more alone. I miss him like a part of myself right now. I'd thought that we shared a soul, and I left myself incomplete when I left him. My phone read 12:12 and I thought about calling him and waking him up just to hear his foggy voice through the phone. A little confused. "Hello? Where are you? It's late." Maybe sleep would erase the past two months and I could tell him I was at the farm feeding, and I'd be home in 15 minutes. Maybe I could close my eyes and be there, next to his warm sinewy arms. Run my hands over his back and feel the slight raised skin of his tattoo. Smell four years in his hair and fit next to him like a jigsaw piece. I miss how he'd call, "Come to bed, Baby," from an otherwise silent room when I'd come home after a late night at work. I miss our dark house with creaking wood floors And our back yard that would feel like home tonight.

I thought about calling him and waking him up. The last time we talked he told me he wouldn't be my aspirin. If I were to call the past two moths would surge suddenly like nausea, and everything would snap back into focus.

I'll return to my shot. Zooming in on me filling myself with smoke because it's all I know to do. I will close my eyes and go over the script of when we were happy. When he'd say, "Hey, baby," and I'd reflect, "Hey, baby," and laugh at the sheer sticky sweet-ness of the moment. On a night that felt like tonight he and I sat on the trunk of his car and watched a front roll in. We had been dating two months. He was kind and exciting, and I thought, then, that I would marry him.

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