Ok. How to do this? Where's the manual? She calls, you pick up the phone in the kitchen, she picks up the phone upstairs, she says, Sorry I can't make it. You march up the stairs and say; what's this about? The room turns black. The stairs back to the kitchen turn to water, each stair a wave breaking over your feet, you don't remember arriving.

The kitchen has changed. Suddenly the walls are too white and the faces in the photos watch as she says everything you don’t want to hear. You watch the pieces of life as you know it fall away. You talk. You don't talk. She talks. There is a semblance of dignity in her explanation. There is knowledge of tragedy in your acceptance. Is there life after deception? You start walking on the Moroccan rugs, placing one foot in front of the other like a drunk test. You keep doing this. You are leering for your new life. You try to embrace the idea of freedom -- you think. You tell yourself you never owned her and now there is relief in the concretizing of your worst fear. You think. So many worst fears are coming to life lately. You keep saying to yourself; what next?

This afternoon composed itself long, long ago. Who do you think you are? There on the beach, light sits like a pool. Above it the dark bottom of clouds hang on a slice of gray-blue sky. A thousand white birds speed into view and zigzag away over the shore. Who are you to think that you deserve more than this? She leaves in the car. You have responsibilities. You want to stay healthy but you forgot to eat dinner and your eyes keep locking onto nothing. What next? You walk out of the empty room. Nothing stays the same, but nothing ever gave you the idea that this wouldn't happen. Life as you knew it had moments of joy and hope and you know how to wait for them again.

Withdrawal

Mostly, when someone dies you feel left out, as if you were not worthy of knowing all. The weight of unanswered questions nearly buries you alive. Family members are mere markers, testimonials to old tales. You finally get up and walk out.

Outside, light falls on your face, skin plum, as if nothing happened, as if you had not just experienced the deepest confrontation with eternity. Enormous emptiness fills your mouth. You tell your arms and legs to continue.

Then, when you are completely seduced by the safety of your flesh, a flash of violence takes everything you have gathered. Your hands rush to your face, your eyes wide. You begin to die too.

Nights Go By

Lately it seems as if my heartbeat has been replaced by new memories that feel like anniversaries of older ones. A temporary suicide of choice, in a set moment of not knowing the difference between arrival and departure.

What I saw yesterday does not mean I will see it again tomorrow.

So curled up into a ball at 3am, my thoughts float above me as I scribe into an empty space in-between. I feel stuck in someone else's circumstance, in an arbitrary kingdom where walls contour around me; all exits leading to rejection.

There's no room to languish though. As I scratch around for meaning, things speak for themselves. They want to change their forms and be something else. We don't end with our skin either. We end up in these things we make.