I called and I felt like I shouldn’t have. I felt like I was talking to emptiness, a discussion wounding in its pointlessness. I won’t call again, I’m sorry. It’s not my place to phone out of the blue, no matter what I dearly wish. Perhaps I should not have pushed so on Monday, perhaps I should have let my forgiveness fall like Damocles Sword. The way you said goodbye made me feel like I’d made a mistake.
“…if he should die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all will fall in love with night…”
I’m spending tonight at Mishka’s. Maybe it will help to finally have someone to talk about how hard this is on me, what pressure it places on my heart and the inside of my skin. There’s no discussing anything with Gavin. We’re very quiet, locked into pleasant conversation with his parents or lost in the silence of travel, looking out windows and sporadically talking about painting. He’s not my lover, there’s little I might say. It’s a constant weight, knowing so many people and having no one to talk to.
She’s on the phone with her boyfriend now, which gives me time to write. After Gavin left, I outlined my love. “I’ve never met anyone quite like him before.” I told her, “And then he was gone, and all the colours, the light of the day, crumbled and went out.”
You’re not allowed to be a hollow shell, love. You have a life which requires living, you have someone you bed down with who needs you, I’m sure. It’s the toss of the dice and the tick of the most damned clock. Maybe I need to learn someone else to take my time where I am away from you, but I don’t think I can. You’ve stolen me and created desire. I can’t help myself from needing you. It’s your voice when I sleep, your eyes meeting mine in my dreams, but you’re already complete. I think I sold my soul for you, and in a perfect world, you would look at me and understand that. I could drown in your vision, my blind hands taking yours to hold me. The truth says that I don’t want my soul back, that I want to break as much as you do. These secrets don’t keep when we know each-other. My darkest admittance is that giving you grace is the vice of self betrayal, denying everything that I’m learning to love. My soul, Love, I don’t want to buy it back. Simple like a child, I only want you. If there were something to pray to, I would use your name to ask to make it worthwhile.
I can feel that he’s dying. There’s black in his mind, an iron vice around his heart. The sky is falling, (selfishly I wish it were ours), crushing capillaries in urgent communication. The stresses of metal, of steel burning. My name isn’t mentioned, he calls for an Angel.