To my lover, who taught me the art of disappearing

To my lover, who taught me the art of disappearing

I walk over to the counter to redeem myself. It is 3 a.m. I do not know what I am looking for. I am not just looking for it, I very well intend to pay for it, even though my hair is unkempt and my clothes speak of a madness that never was. 

The drug store owner hands me a strip of yellow pills – the size of insect eggs.

One year into a life I never thought I would be living and I was a joyless, sexless, clueless nobody.

The drug store owner looks at me with eyes that scream – Run over to the bookstore next door and buy the Book of Love.

Its 3 a.m. Bookstores close, memories snap, love grows sour and all you are left with is bad timing.

He runs his hands over the sharp edge of the strip – What do you know of failing?

Before anything else, you had to know this – She was easy, easy to fall in love with.

What do you know of not wanting to be here? Not wanting to be you?

As my lover, you should know, it is a terrible time to talk about the economy. We are a faltering civilization and you can’t use it as an excuse to bail out on what we had.

The other day I read about the soaring ‘lipstick index’ – We are wining. We are ironically undefeated. 

Cloudy, gloomy days, days that beg you to dive headfirst into a peaceful slumber. These days have me thinking of you

I think of you waiting at the airport. That’s how I always picture you – nervous, alone, waiting, wanting to go, indifferent to goodbyes.

There are so many bits of you that need due consideration, you never cease to amaze me.

‘I’d date me,’ you’d say or something equally ridiculous, as you washed the very last of the dishes pouring a part of you down the sink.

Sometimes you’d cook for yourself and lay out a table for two even though you knew no one was coming. Because an empty plate made you feel safe, because I knew you better than that, because you could eat your words and never have anything to say ever again.

Metaphors never happen, they are just there for you to pick up. Among those many things, I can’t even name the ones I miss the most –

A half open window, an unmade bed, an untouched cup of tea, garbage bags lying at the door, waiting to be thrown out, the smell of guilt.