I'm happy today.
I get out of bed and lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling. It seems to churn and pitch, violently, though it's not such a violent affair as my knotted bedsheets boast. I have nothing to think of, a great pity since thinking is all I can do at the moment. So just staring at the ceiling, as I imagine millions of others in the world are doing, is my hobby. I can't stand thinking anymore, so instead I lie thinking.
It's petty wordplay like this I amuse myself with.
I have no job. I am the anti-hero.
I do things by candlelight. I am the anti-hero.
Outside has nothing to offer me, so of course, I step into it.
It's autumn and sixty-eight degrees. The leaves seem to be hewn of dollar-store cinnamon and dried poster paint. My fingers imitate light glissandi on the brick of the step I sit on. I'm restless in the sense that I refuse to rest.
I share this parking lot with some kids and their headphones. Though they're off in the foggy distance, I can hear their cassettes from here, as well as their laughs, some forced form of accompaniment. Mirrors,
their faces are mirrors, reproducing a visage of experience one of them has picked up from somewhere else. One part weariness and three parts self-assurance is the mask they all wear. I don't care to see their true faces.
It's late, 11:12 PM, and who knows what they're waiting for? A man across the way assumes it's his daughter's pussy and curses them away. I comply, though he wasn't talking to me, and anyway that step means nothing to me, really, so I shift off and wipe the seat of my jeans on the way up.
I'm in love with you, all of you, even though I don't know what love is. I want to find you and sit next to you and ask you about love, since you know so much and I don't know anything at all and I'm ashamed of it and also ashamed that I was proud of it once when I was younger but I don't know if that's justification for being foolish, is it? being young, since actions cannot be undone and since no one weighs actions by the "intent" standard no matter what they say or believe they believe.
It's too cold. Body shivers and I'm pulled back to the bed.
Back arches and legs swing over the side and arms push up and feet with toes curled bring me to the portable plastic heater.
I miss you. I want to talk to you about life and politics and,
and loneliness. That I feel. I want to tell you that you're the first one I've ever loved, and that I've loved you for a long time and that this is all new to me but I'm tired already goddammit.
Shoulders rise and arms clamp around fidgety calves.
Chest tries to produce sobs that I know aren't real, and that throat doesn't want.
Doesn't.
Want.
You are sitting on your bedroom floor. Your apartment was recently remodeled and the stench of thinner and adhesives irritates you, but you don't leave because you're avoiding something.
You have one thing, a picture of your lover. You trace the contours of your lover's face over and over and over. Back and forth. Ears shyly poking out from underneath a winter cap, somehow shimmering eyes almost shut to make room for the fantastic grin. Light hair of feathers hinting at some angelic past. Leaning against that rock in the park you make out next to every couple weeks. At night. The stars a painted backdrop for your beautiful one, the one that makes everything around shine, saturated in light and color and warmth and depth and love, love, your love, your love.
I painted that inadequate backdrop.
You hate this picture. The edges are ragged and yellowed, and it's folded in halves and halves again. It smells of old bookstores and spiced apples and reminds you of something you should be doing.
Instead, you get up and crack an egg into a frying pan. It takes a while to heat up; you didn't turn on the heat beforehand, like you always do.
As an afterthought, you shove the photograph into your left pocket. You now know you hate yourself for ruining the thing and not the thing itself. You burn your egg on purpose and turn on the stove fan.
You're not in a mood to deal with anything. You're kind of bored. You take the egg straight off the frying pan and drop it into your mouth. Fewer dishes to leave in the stagnant dishwater.
You think of me for the first time in months. How am I doing? You wonder if I made something of my life. Have I accomplished anything? You said I was clever and great. Could we have been?
Maybe once.
Once.
How is that one guy, that one girl doing? You wonder if they made something of their lives. Hahave they accomplished anything? You said they were clever and great. Could you have been?
Maybe once.
Once.
But now you have your lover, the clever and great one. You are.
Now.
Now.
Now.
You toss some water into the pan, swish it around, dump it out, and put it on the counter to dry.
You go out to the convenience store and buy an ice.
You eat it slowly, letting streams map out their sticky course between your fingers.
You eat it too slowly, and you find yourself looking at an empty gray popsicle stick in the black night at a brown rock in the muddy park.
You didn't even get to taste it.
Your lover is not there and has spoiled you for the world.
I am there and I ask you if you are happy.
You say, "Yes."
Could we all have been?
Maybe once.
Once.
But not now.
Now.
I'm reading a book at home and every word is the shape of you.
I'm burning a candle at home and every flicker is you stepping into the room.
I'm sitting alone at home and every sound I hear is yours.
I'm writing a story at home and every word belongs to you.
You who doesn't exist.
And I don't give a fuck about romance. Because it's 1992 and I'm too young to notice what I don't have.
