The phone call only confirmed what I already suspected, and I didn't have to be told what Cello wanted done. Odd guy that Cello was, all theatrics and shoulders in person, but smooth as the Bird* when it came to business. For all his panache though, we didn't exactly get along personally, but worked well together for some odd reason. I trusted his ability to read a situation and I guess he trusted me to keep my mouth shut. I wasn't quite sure yet why I was watching these two, the woman known by various monickers and nameless fedora guy. Oh well, I'd find out or I wouldn't, either way Cello would have his information to compare with whatever I found out that night. They crossed to the other side of the street, which was empty, so I hung back a bit. It was raining that perfect rain, just hard enough to cover footsteps but not enough to cover voices above a whisper, so I could hear them murmuring to each other. I'm the kinda person given to introspection I guess, so I wondered about them as we paced along, presumably to his apartment (I already knew where Wanda/Countess etc lived). It all seemed out of place, almost staged even, like it was for my benefit and I didn't even know it. Snatches of conversation here and there didn't help at all. Mention of politics, typical though, who wasn't talking about politics in those days? Something about a deposit box somewhere and a key held non situ. That peaked my interest but there was no context, nothing to go on. They turned a corner and out of sight, so I crossed to their side as quick as I could without making too much noise and crept up to the corner. Peaking around I saw them standing under a streetlight in front of a boarded up curry shop. I didn't understand what I was hearing at the time, and to this day dearly wish that I had lost them that night.

"...wondering why you're here is all. Things are fine. I haven't had to use the box in months, the whole thing is paying for itself. Sure there've been hickups, but nothing I couldn't handle." She must've known him, I realized, Wanda was standing too close for them to be strangers. Just one more thing I misread that night. "That's not why he's here," said Fedora. She grabbed his lapel and shook him a bit, not hard though. "Don't **** me around like that Alan! Who'd they send to eyeball me?! I'm not just some stupid little girl ******!" Fedora, Alan apparently, gently took her hands off his coat. "Nobody thinks you can't handle it, and they didn't send anybody. I told you, he's here already, wants to make sure those Rot Kappelle ******* don't start any crap with you and your people. The op is still yours, he's just keeping an eye out." Wanda had stepped back at the mention of whoever "he" was and put a hand to her mouth. "I can't believe Silas came here for me," she said, shaking her head. "Who all did he bring?" Alan looked like he just ate something nasty. "Arthur and his group of misfits, no idea why so don't ask. Can't stand those *******, but they're good to have if it gets nasty." Not a single word of this made any kind of sense to me at all, but that didn't much matter at the time. Something was going on though, this Silas guy I had heard of here and there, but never anything solid. There were so many factions and movements springing up all over the place, it was hard to keep track of them all, especially the coalition people, which these two were I guessed. As for "those Rot Kappelle *******", of course that was Cello and the rest of my bosses, whose names I didn't have any inkling of. This was freelance, contract by contract, so I worked alone except for my connection with Cello and of course my own unaffiliated contacts. Their conversation continued along the same lines for a minute or two until Wanda dropped one more choice line. "What about that crazy hippie chick that's gotten so popular? I'm losing people to her, all that crap about love and positive social change and how we can make headway by disobedience and negotiation." "Pretty sure that's another reason Silas came here in person," responded Alan, "It's a problem we need to handle before things get out of hand. Look, it's starting to rain harder and my room is bugged, so that's out. Silas told me he'd find you once he gets a feel for things here in the city, so don't go looking for him. I'll be seeing you around...." I was already gone by the time Wanda came back around the corner, Cello had to get that information as soon as possible. I was sure I'd be seeing one or the both of Moose and Squirrel again later on that night anyway.

I wish to be held
in the fluttering midst of your lashes.
To dream and lie
in soft gardens of green and dismissal.
I wish to be sunk
deep through the enclosing of your gashes.
A stream drank dry,
with decayed skeletons of sweet thistle.

I dare not divulge
How I loathe,
How I want.
I dare not indulge
In my breath,
Nor my heart.

I wish to be drunk!
How the merlot might rain onto my earth!
To fit and cry!
The tortured soil in pleasure and respite.
Oh, I am compelled,
To curse all monickers shared unto worth!
Now dreams must die!
Drowned amongst wretched ripples of moonlight!

I will not become
Who I loathe,
Who I want.
I will abstain from
My own breath,
My own heart.

things changed after we broke up

i started going to bed earlier.
the only reason i never did when we were together
was you.
you were the best part of my day;
i ached to have as much of you as i could, when i could,
even if it meant having to navigate the halls by memory
as i dragged my feet to six a.m. breakfast with my eyes shut.
the memory of your laughter – of the knowledge that i made you laugh – from mere hours before
warmed even the most chilly and meaningless of dawns.

i couldn't listen to music
especially ones that made me think of you;
ones that made me want to go dancing with you.
songs about happily ever afters,
longing,
unrequited love.
god, i couldn't deal with these beautiful voices singing beautifully about pain as if it deserves it.
there's nothing beautiful about it.

i started writing more.
so, so much more.
words poured out when you tipped over my half-empty glass.
i wrote when my eyes were too tired from pumping out tears,
when my muscles were too spent from beating my bed,
when my roommates stayed so i couldn't do either.
it was you who opened my eyes to poetry
so as much as i wrote to forget you,
it was also a way to feel closer to you.
at the end of the day,
i still sought comfort in you.

i started going out more, to distract myself,
but the world did a **** terrible job at helping.
just when you want to forget, the world ***** you over and reminds you, over and over again:
the sound of crunching ice, the smell of coffee, wet stains on tabletops.
to others, they're insignificant, almost invisible;
to me, they hold moments so quiet and cherished,
moments i would probably never experience again.

i talked to my friends more,
especially the ones i haven't in a while.
if anyone asked, i would say i wanted to catch up,
that i wanted to see how they're doing, that i missed them,
but it was all, unsurprisingly, a lie.
it was all an effort to bury your name beneath jovial monickers,
down, down, down,
along with me tamping down the desire to tap on your name.
"out of sight, out of mind," right?

it never worked.

it never worked because i would find myself scrolling down, down,
find myself staring at the flashing line, smug and taunting and mocking.
so you're wrong. i do want to talk to you.
i just don't know how to. i can't.
i've tried. you've seen me try.
but each time my fingers tremble with words i'm not allowed to say anymore,
and with that realization comes the tell-tale twist of something dark and harsh in my chest,
and i ache from the loss of the ease and what-used-to-be's
quickly displacing my will to be okay, to be there, for you.
so i fail. again and again and again.

i know you think i hate you,
and i haven't done anything to disprove that.
sometimes i like to think i do.
loss crippled me. hate fueled me.
hate fed my pride and ego,
made me think i was the missing piece, rather than missing a piece.
i like to think i do hate you. it's easier that way
but i know i never did, never will.

but there will always be this desire to blame someone,
to put the weight of these events on someone's shoulders,
so if i am to resent someone in this narrative,
it's me:
me and my inability to keep you,
me and my inability to let you go;
me, for running away from being loved so many times before to avoid the pain,
but set myself up by loving too much too soon.

but despite what these words seem to mean,
i don't regret loving you.
i don't regret the moment i saw you clutching your purse to your face in excitement, that first time.
i don't regret braving hours of commute to hide in a corner of a bustling McDonalds with you.
i don't regret running down the street with the twelve-noon sun glaring at us to surprise you for your birthday.
i don't regret waiting on those front steps of that bank to walk with you to school.
i don't regret fighting sleep (most of the time unsuccessfully) to cry and yell with you at whatever there was to cry and yell about.

i don't regret anything. please know that.
i hope you don't either.

to conclude this poem that isn't really a poem anymore:
i thank you.
thank you for loving me once
truly, purely, genuinely, honestly.
thank you for allowing me to love you as much as you had.
thank you for trying.
you were the first person i ever, truly loved,
and after all that's been said and done,
i'm still glad it was you.

That thing of varied tangibility,
Be it the West or the frontier or whatever,
Has long since gone a-gleaming,
The time when it was still proper
To pay ones respects
Having passed beyond memory itself,
Those phenomena so elemental,
So deeply interwoven in our days and fates
They were bestowed monickers of their own
Now simple chemical reactions and natural curiosities
Familiar and easily explicable,
Yet as we apprehend those still, starlit skies
Which engendered such wonder in our forebearers,
Our understanding of the heavens
Has not left us any less lonely or forsaken
Than those sad men on horseback
Who whispered a name plaintively into the zephyr.