My grandmother sits.
She stares out at nothing
the way she did on the day my grandpa died.
She is the widow.
Old.
Watching
the clock.
the bird feeder.
the nothing.

I visit her.
I stare out at nothing
not wanting to sleep in the same bed my grandpa died.
I am the granddaughter.
Young.
Watching
the clock.
the tv.
the nothing.

She makes my bed on the couch by a night light.

I am not afraid of the ghosts.
I am afraid of the silence.
I am afraid of the nothing.

In my lifetime,
I’ve loved so many pages.

But I love this page.

I love this page with my whole heart
--the way the pen moves as it pumps blood to my fingers--
how the ink stains this once blank page.
--how with one staple,
my summer becomes an insert,
an attachment
that can be ripped out and forgotten

Maybe even
burned.
Like any one of the stained pages from my **** stain of a year.
Rip.
           Flick.
                       Ashes.
It can be gone.
I’m ready.
                       Let it burn.

I left the glass you drank out of
right where you set it down.
I don't want to touch it
it reminds me that you were here,
in my bed,
in this intimate place.

So when
you don't call,
or I haven't seen you in weeks,
or I hear that you ****** somebody else,
I'll remember how you studied my blushing face
told me how cute I was,
smiling at me

as shrieking, unsuspecting teens are slaughtered in the background.

A single pane of glass and half-drawn shades separated me from my maker tonight.
I know I should have called sooner but it's late and I knew you’d be asleep.
I was upset because you ate all the bread and I was left with the two end pieces that are really only saved to crumble and throw at the ducks in the pond.
It’s a little past two and I was just in the kitchen making grilled cheese.

I don’t even look up when
The shouts rise and settle in the dark, foolish night.
This has become commonplace for insomniacs like us.
We bear these yawning horrors,
the exploding blunderbuss, to spare your sweet, dreaming slumber.

This can't be different from a movie scene, but I can barely hear the first gunshot
(much less the second) above the sizzle and snarl of the butter in the pan.
Between two cars, I watch the paramedic
pound the barrier between flesh and what lay beneath,
what simply refuses to answer that forceful beckoning of breath.

Lord, please just let his heart beat.

I hope that helicopters are lifting this kid on the gurney
Up into the unforgiving night that sits heavy above us all.
The scoop and swirl and tuck and twirl of the fleeting, unnoticed smoke fills the kitchen.
I’m still clutching these cold slices of cheese in my hand.
I take a few bites but seemingly misplace my appetite for ****** cooking.

I can only think of the “Horses of Achilles” by Cavafy as I let the cheese drizzle and smear over my chin and cheeks,
I think of their tears for young Patroclus.
I think of their mourning of the woebegone of humanity
In spite of their immortality.

I’m not really sure why I’m telling you all of this.
I guess I just realized that I have never really known Fear.
Never felt It pound at the barrier between flesh and fate.
Despite that beckoning of breath,
I watch the never ending calamity of death and cower behind youth’s half-drawn shades.

Oh God, it's been 20 minutes. Let his heart beat just once!
Just twice?
Just until the morning light?
Because what else is youth for if not to have and to hold,
Right?

I’ll feel foolish when you find that nothing about this message makes any real sense.
Thankfully, it's about that time for the sun to rise,
But there is a cruel fog settling between what has passed and the dawn.
It leaves a thin layer of moisture on the glistening DO NOT ENTER tape that tangles between the trees, on the grass, and on the roofs of the houses that sit heavy above us all.

But above all,
I wanted to tell you that the birds are chirping already.
So I’ll just talk to you later in the morning, maybe?
I guess my point is,
I guess what I really called to say is,

I’m glad you’re still breathing.
And,
I’m glad I am too.
But,
when the inevitable arrives and we must really know Fear,

I hope we pound against the beckoning of beat and breath,
until the paramedic announces our time of death.
I hope the immortal horses shed their tears for fleeting youth and for burnt bread,
I hope they mourn the return from Life to the great Nothing night that awakens to the chirping birds of another sunrise.

I hope it didn’t wake you.

This life is not a Disney movie.
The beast will never turn into a charming prince.
This is not a romance movie (you know I despise them so).
There are no grand gestures of love,
of running through the gates of the airport
or flying through the doors of the church at that perfect
movie moment.

The plane always takes off.
The bride is kissed,
prepared for a life of playing house
and pretend.

In this life, things don't work out how they should have,
could have,
would have,
were promised to do so.

Things do not happen for a reason,
real or imagined.
If only,
if only life should have,
could have,
would have,
were to be so kind.
If only it would be so kind.

Turn it off now.
This movie is making me sick.
I can already guess what happens
in the end.

He is the kind of guy that makes you go crazy.
Like a glimpse through the looking glass into a strangle world
with a Chesire Cat.
You might even question if he slipped something into your drink.

If only you had that effect on someone.
You spray your perfume on his clothes so that maybe,
oh maybe
he'll think of you next time he's taking off his shirt.

But when you wake up from the hangover,
the *******,
the euphoria,
he is just a man.
And maybe,
(is it that you weren't pretty enough?)
(could you have done something differently?)
you were too good for him anyway.

When I see the fog, I think of your brother
on the overpass, car flipped over,
cigarette still burning in his left hand.

Remember when we laid in your bed that morning?
You were asleep on my chest.
I cried.
You asked me what was wrong.
I said I just wanted to take away the pain.