Feb 2016
I woke up this morning to the vibration of base board heat kicking on and off to the cadence of the wind slapping against the tan siding of my two story home.
I was alone.
I lifted the comforter briefly, felt around for my phone, and then pulled it back down over me like cling wrap before the cool air of a poorly heated, hardwood bedroom crept in to meet my tired skin.
The screen was blank.
Just the time "9:08 AM",
towering over the date "Wednesday, February 10"
I was alone.
Really alone.
It's been 26 days since we stopped sleeping next to one an other.
26 days,
and today is the first day I woke up
and I didn't feel like
there was anything missing.
The last night in our old place
I drove to the Turkey Hill on Keyser
at two in the morning for peppermint mocha
creamer and then I came home and brewed
us a *** of coffee.
I wanted to sit across from you at that
little glass table,
as the clock hanging on the wall
behind your head
clicked quietly,
counting the time we had left,
and I wanted to smell the
ever-so-nostalgic
aroma of cheap coffee
in a creaky apartment building,
just as the sun began to
creep in through the blinds.
That was my last chance
for a pleasant snap shot.
I wanted to remember the art
and the poetry
and the sweetness
and the light
of loving you.
The thought of having
you sitting with your knees in your chest,
on the floor at the foot of your bed,
ignoring me as I lay face down
crying into my pillow,
as the lasting image of
that little, broken place on West Market
that we called "home" for two years
just seemed so wrong.
It seemed so unfair.
So, I crafted this pathetic reenactment
of mornings passed when we had
nothing we had to do & nowhere else
we'd rather be but sitting across from
each other at that little glass table
in the kitchen.
It wasn't believable though.
I was sitting in the same place,
with the same boy,
hearing the same sounds
and inhaling the same scents
as I'd grown so used to,
and yet I knew I didn't
belong here.
Not anymore.
I was in my own home,
the home we made together
& I was suddenly struck with
the debilitating ache of
feeling home-sick.
We knew it was over
three weeks before
either of us said it
out loud,
and it took three more weeks
before either of us acknowledged
that we'd said it out loud,
and it took three more weeks
before either of us began
to pack our things,
or tell our families.
But here we are.
Nowhere.
We are nowhere.
"We" don't exist.
Or maybe we do,
stagnant in our admiration.
In some alternate universe,
perhaps we are
counting the freckles
on each other's noses,
mid-August.
But in this universe,
I am sprawled out across
a painfully uncomfortable
futon with pillows stacked on
either side of me
for comfort,
and you're probably
sitting by yourself
in your white SUV
that rattles when it moves,
smoking a bowl while
the heat kicks in,
and you are freezing,
and you don't want to go to work,
but you're going to.
And I am freezing,
and I don't want to move,
but I'm going to.
Life goes on,
and on and on.
And today I woke up
and there was nothing missing.
I was alone.
I lifted the comforter briefly, felt around for my phone, and then pulled it back down over me like cling wrap before the cool air of a poorly heated, hardwood bedroom crept in to meet my tired skin.
The screen was blank.
Just the time "9:08 AM",
towering over the date "Wednesday, February 10"
I was alone.
Really alone.
It's been 26 days since we stopped sleeping next to one an other.
26 days,
and today is the first day I woke up
and I didn't feel like
there was anything missing.
The last night in our old place
I drove to the Turkey Hill on Keyser
at two in the morning for peppermint mocha
creamer and then I came home and brewed
us a *** of coffee.
I wanted to sit across from you at that
little glass table,
as the clock hanging on the wall
behind your head
clicked quietly,
counting the time we had left,
and I wanted to smell the
ever-so-nostalgic
aroma of cheap coffee
in a creaky apartment building,
just as the sun began to
creep in through the blinds.
That was my last chance
for a pleasant snap shot.
I wanted to remember the art
and the poetry
and the sweetness
and the light
of loving you.
The thought of having
you sitting with your knees in your chest,
on the floor at the foot of your bed,
ignoring me as I lay face down
crying into my pillow,
as the lasting image of
that little, broken place on West Market
that we called "home" for two years
just seemed so wrong.
It seemed so unfair.
So, I crafted this pathetic reenactment
of mornings passed when we had
nothing we had to do & nowhere else
we'd rather be but sitting across from
each other at that little glass table
in the kitchen.
It wasn't believable though.
I was sitting in the same place,
with the same boy,
hearing the same sounds
and inhaling the same scents
as I'd grown so used to,
and yet I knew I didn't
belong here.
Not anymore.
I was in my own home,
the home we made together
& I was suddenly struck with
the debilitating ache of
feeling home-sick.
We knew it was over
three weeks before
either of us said it
out loud,
and it took three more weeks
before either of us acknowledged
that we'd said it out loud,
and it took three more weeks
before either of us began
to pack our things,
or tell our families.
But here we are.
Nowhere.
We are nowhere.
"We" don't exist.
Or maybe we do,
stagnant in our admiration.
In some alternate universe,
perhaps we are
counting the freckles
on each other's noses,
mid-August.
But in this universe,
I am sprawled out across
a painfully uncomfortable
futon with pillows stacked on
either side of me
for comfort,
and you're probably
sitting by yourself
in your white SUV
that rattles when it moves,
smoking a bowl while
the heat kicks in,
and you are freezing,
and you don't want to go to work,
but you're going to.
And I am freezing,
and I don't want to move,
but I'm going to.
Life goes on,
and on and on.
And today I woke up
and there was nothing missing.
