Of Leaving and Being Left Behind

I’m pretty sure if I hadn’t closed my eyes I wouldn’t have fallen asleep. Here I am after all, four hours and a few drops of tears more after, up and about. Awake, but not on the inside. Conscious, but not on the inside. Alive, but not on the inside. Replaying in my head scenes from the night before. Feeling the burn of the silver beads. Seeing him walk away, get in his car, turn the engine on, set it to reverse, and watch the darkness pull him away and away, farther and farther. Running my fingers through the air, convinced that after I had run them on his face, his shoulders, his arm countless times in an effort to memorize his every detail, his memory would suffice. But each trace in the air only proved to be a futile attempt to remember.

It’s almost daybreak now, the light giving unfitting colors and shades to all within my view. With almost fully exhausted efforts I reach for the strings overhead and lower the blinds. Ah, darkness. Much better. Much more appropriate.

I lie awake for some time, my entire world still pretty much a swirling eddy, my insides lurching, bringing me to a cringe, my heart being stabbed through and through with knives, my mattress in a constant spin, far too big for something as small as this, as flat as this, as frail and wispy as this body, my whole being on the very brinks of desire. Just desire. In want. Not necessarily for anyone or for anything. Just simply, in want.

Wanting.

I haven’t turned on the fan. And my blanket is up to my neck. I wipe beads of sweat off of my forehead, shift to my side, avoiding that side of the bed with already slightly clammy sheets. And yet despite the warmth, I feel cold. Cold as cold can be. The kind of cold that goes down to my fingers, travels down my spine, burns my skin. At this very moment I don’t understand what people mean when they say that summer is the warmest time of the year.

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