I used to think of you in a different light, your clothes so freshly pressed.
Your smile so perfectly aligned on your face. Mirror images of you invaded my thoughts. There are moments I indulge in life's forbidden fruit and I give myself permission to let you memory go straight to my heart. I will sit in the corner of the sofa, pick up your photograph and traced the outline of your silhouette. Sometimes I would do this for hours, staring and thinking and holding on to your photo frame. But it always ends badly and in a river of tears. I loathed it and yet I always find myself back in that very same spot.
It is a religious routine I have to follow.
I wake up in the morning brush my teeth then glance once, twice, and three times at the mirrors' image. No more than three times, because it would be a bad thing to do. Then after passing my finger through my hair wrecked hair I will walk to the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee.
There again: one, two, and three times I will place the cup into the flowing water. Rinsing the cup from its sins or so I think. But never ever, twice or a single time. It has to be exactly three, three freaking times. The coffee finally brews. The smell pierces my nostrils deeply, it is bitter sweet and yet an aroma that is so very inviting. Pouring the coffee also requires this same count and attention, once, twice and yes, oh yes, three times is the winner.
I will place the exact amount of water into the pot so that when brewed it will fall exactly to the end of the cup, leaving enough room for the three squirts of creamer and the three squared cubes of sugar. There! I have the perfect cup of Joe.
The coffee is rich in texture, the cream soft, and the sugar thrilling.
Madness I know, but oh so very satisfying; the perfect mixture.
Finally, satisfied and content I will go to the couch and sit on its very edge. Never in a state of comfort and always as if anticipation has held the best of me in its grasps. It's as if I'm waiting for the phone to ring. But I know that I wait in vain.No calls could ever come from that wicked thing. When I first moved in I was in such a rush, making sure I did not break out of my routine.
Because of that I had never plugged in the stupid wire. Still 9 years later it remains the same, on the side table full of dust, but perfectly functional and without a soul. Finally, it will be the moment I had been waiting for all evening. It seems as if every moment of the day I wait around until the clock strikes 9:33PM. That is the magic hour of my existence.
I have found my way to you. Your face. Your eyes. Your picture.
In a moment I have lost my will to do anything else and my attention is yours, yours to own. I hear your voice, it calls me. It draws me to you.
So there, I have you in my arms again. Your smile, oh your smile. One could never forget or want to forget such a sweet nectar. Your eyes full of life.
The beauty of your dark hair invigorates me. How I wish to go back in time and have a moment to see my reflection in your eyes. To have them look back at me instead of through me. I simply adore you.
It's never enough to see them looking back at me from your picture.
But I need to indulge and this is the fastest and easiest way to do it
without any regrets. The color of your hair it is dark ebony at it's very best the deepest and most lavish color I have ever seen.
I have forgotten how it was that I reached this point of desperation.
I cannot recall the last time I spoke to anyone, and here in this crazy space I find myself longing for human touch. I have forgotten what it feels to have someone hold my hand. I cannot even think of the way it would feel,
the warmth of their fingers on mine. It could be that their hand might be cold and clammy. I don't know. I don't care. Or do I? Besides, isn't human contact so very overrated? Who needs this type of interruption when, as my tears fall, I feel the warmth and energy of life. There is nothing like it, so damn bittersweet. Just like my coffee. I look at your photo and think of how lonely you felt right before your death.
I remember you always taking your "quiet time" always sitting on the porch. What day of the week it was? Hell, it did not matter. You always found your way to your "quiet time". Rain or shine, there you were like clockwork.
You had your routine to follow and I had mine to engage in.
We were like two beggars in the cold, one begging for a loaf of bread and the other for warmth of a home. Still, the two of us engaging in a daily routine that was so very public and yet so darn intimate. an unacknowledged sin where you are the sinner and I was part of that sin.
Every day you would sit on the porch, hair flowing, your dress almost embedded into your figure. I watch your eyes looking, fixated on the oncoming cars that glided by. You never noticed me, never spoke to me.
It was just you and your day. You, and your fucking day. I hated you. The smell of your perfume drowned me; the essence of you in the house was like pestilence in my nostrils. But it was hard to ignore you. Your presence was solid, harsh and always in a state of unconsciousness. Your physical being was there but your mind was always so freaking absent. And still, I couldn't ignore you, and I couldn't ignore this nagging feeling of wanting love, this feeling of unconditional adoration I felt for you. I couldn't ignore this want, this need to hold your hand. I needed to feel the warmth of your embrace.
I still need that. I have always yearned for it. I needed to smell the scent of your freshly washed hair. That type of contact never unfolded between us,
I was yours then as much as you are mine to hold now.
After watching you for hours I always crawled back to the bathroom, undressed, and sat in the tub with the water hitting my head. It didn't matter how cold or hot it poured out. It just needed to be extreme, because I needed to scrub you off of my skin. I couldn't bare to love you so much.
I hated you. Do you hear me! I hated you. But still, I needed to know that my flesh was able to feel. Who was I to you? A still birth is what I believed I was to you. A nameless, faceless human being that needed to breath air.
but soulless, empty like a glass jar full of air and always empty.
My lucky day came the day you shot that damn poison into your veins and passed. That day your routine was different, you see. The day came and when you took your quiet time, something made you jolt up from your chair. You ran straight past me and into the kitchen. The needle was still in your arms as you dropped before me. Your eyes were going in and out of consciousness. At times I thought you saw me, but then, then you looked right through me like always. Like today, like yesterday, like tomorrow.
Poor little sad girl, that is what I was. There I was in a sad state of shock.
Frozen with fear and shaking a cold sweat. The sweat in my face had fogged up my glasses. Cold sweat, then hot. My body was screaming from within.
My mind was on fire. But I was motionless and unable to reach out for help.
Suddenly it was all over. You just laid there, sprawled on the kitchen floor. Your eyes were wide open, just staring straight through me. I don’t know why or how, but I waited there with you as I always had. I waited for you. Like I do every time the clock strikes 9:33PM.
Tick Tock. The clock racing. The day turned into night and then again and again. The door finally flew open and people, like ants, invaded the apartment. Voices screaming, radios requesting back up. I remember seeing the color blue, dark blue, like my mood. Dark blue, like the color of the syringe tip still encrusted into your vein. Dark blue like the color of your lips. Dark blue, like midnight's lover.
But now it's ok because now I have you, here all to myself. Your eyes, they look back at me now. I kiss your face and feel your love. Don’t tell anyone. Don't speak too loud about our love. They might come and take you away. Maybe it would be best because you have nearly faded. I used to think of you in a different light, but now I long for your scent, now I long for the scent your perfume. I love you as you loved me once. I love you as I fear you have…
One, two, three. Our eyes on mine, once again they lock.
redsirens©
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