And then there were five

Counting the days like I usually count my steps. To and from, one mistake to the next. The sun sets the same no matter where I am. And rises the next day like a ghost from an unmarked grave.

It will feel good to say I've been there. Once I've left this place. It seems I'm not as accomplished at being alone as I thought. Conversations with imaginary people help pass the time, but my future remains as uncertain as ever. Hoping there might be someone waiting for me. Knowing I'm probably too lost to be found.

Nevermind

It was a stupid idea. To think that writing about any of this would change a thing.

I'm counting the days.

It's all I can do.

Touch

Crying slowly, like falling raindrops. A muted sigh that might be mine. So much sadness everywhere. I pull a tissue from the box and another grows to take its place. Life is nothing but repetition. People walk in just as easily as out. The red glow of taillights in the darkness. Raindrops on the glass making the most beautiful abstracts. Out of all this ugliness.

Faint words written in yellow chalk across the blackboard. A map, perhaps, to help me find that island. As lost as I have been, it makes me wonder if anything will be different there. It’s the lies that make the moments possible. Truth is little more than a nightlight that keeps us from walking into things.

If I go too far back I won’t exist. And then I’ll never be able to touch anyone.

This time

It’s worse than the emotion itself; having to pretend, sometimes, that none of this is happening. That these feelings aren’t real. Just everyday sensations jacked up on lust and passion. Most likely to settle back down once the excitement has receded. A smoldering pile of ash that will grow cold once our backs are turned.

The blade is dull, but it still manages to cut right through me. A cold wind from the north that refuses to accept winter is over. It’s always just around the corner, a hello or a goodbye. A selfish decision that has become the most beautiful of mistakes.

He asks me what I‘m thinking and I tell him. Like giving a stranger directions, or the time. And then I wait. For the cracks to form and the sky to fall. So certain I’ll lose him in the future. Counting my steps to a door that may never open.

There are many things he chooses to forget, I can only hope this will not be one of them.

Choices

It should be about making the best of everything, not the worst. The earth is made mostly of water for a reason. We can sink or we can swim. Sometimes life feels like floating, but in reality, we’re all sinking. So slowly we don’t notice until it’s almost too late. And then we’re reaching frantically for that hand. Any hand that can pull us to safety.

I always seem to want what’s missing. Thinking I can overcome the darkness if I just keep moving forward. My pain wasted on all these memories from the past. It doesn’t matter anymore, what happened then. Changing the timeline could erase us all.

The sky only falls on little chickens, but I find myself glancing upwards. The worst kind of angel is the one that doesn’t wait for death.

I saved you a seat

I don’t need light to see. What isn’t there. I can pretend in the darkness just as easy. Like empty boxes tied up with pretty ribbons. A door opens and the brightness rushes in; tiny yellow birds freed from their gigantic cages, overwhelmed by their own songs.

I feel it in the music, but it brings little comfort. Like broken glass tempting me to squeeze it. The choice an empty seat I save for a friend who never shows. Just more space to get lost in. Strings untangling, only to tangle again.

Words to write, pictures to draw, skin to touch. Telling my sad stories about what could have been. Searching for treasure that was dug up long ago.

If there must be someone in the darkness, it might as well be me.

Still shivering

Sometimes I understand. That nothing’s important until you feel it slipping away. Life’s elevator broken down between floors. Doing the math always makes me feel so cold. The answers that might fail me. I think the world is small enough to fit in my pocket. But I would never be so presumptuous to try it. Waiting for a suitable moment to force the doors apart. Thinking I’ve stood here shivering long enough.

Sometimes the numbers make sense, but most of the time they just take up space. Like words, or music, or colorful kites pressed to the wind. I’ve always preferred to take the stairs. Telling my stories to bored ghosts and the memories that echo there. Each step another paragraph or reason to turn the page.

Alone again, like empty cupboards. Tripping over my own shadow; feeling the wind before it rains. All my choices stiff with age. To be that little girl at the top of the stairs, peering into the darkness. More curious than afraid of what comes next. A snowball the size of the world in her pocket. Unaware that it has melted.

Winter

So easy to believe that more will make it better. Like creaky steps to an attic or a cellar. Thinking it will be fun to be underground, or high above. Anyplace that can distract me from the pain. Trying to make short stories from all these chapters. Because no one has time for novels anymore.

Time passes and I tell myself it doesn’t matter. The doorway isn’t going anywhere. The knock will come. Like the patience of mortar between bricks. Cold in the winter, hot in the summer, but always strong. Perhaps I’ll be prettier tomorrow anyway. Flaws fading like old photographs. Inside is where it hurts the most, not where it counts.

I’m dressing in layers, but I’m still cold.

Something at last

It has been nearly a month since my last entry . . .

I’m not sure why. There are plenty of thoughts in my head. Words disguised as beautiful songs, but the lyrics refuse to be written. Empty notes like empty shoes by my bed. The soles a scrapbook of all the places I have been. But it feels as if there is nowhere left to walk in them. A little girl on her tiptoes, trying to see over the horizon. But it’s all too far away.

Or maybe it’s simply not knowing where to begin. Taking pictures of the darkness without a flash. Nothing but torn paper and dried up pens. Frantic scribbles in desperate circles, like an author nearing the perfect ending. The lies are what makes love possible. Truth is the slippery slope. Imaginary walls closing in. A fitting prison for the stranger I have become. Pretending I don’t care because it’s just easier for everyone that way. Climbing a narrow staircase to the next floor, but nothing changes. Just more doors and broken windows. The patterns different; the melody the same.

So many bridges I could cross or just as easily burn.

I was there

Yes, I’m lonely. But it’s not his fault. The lies kept me company for quite awhile. Now they have scatted like autumn leaves. Flirting with the warm earth. Waiting for the cold rains to wash away all those silly possibilities. Like searching for that needle in a haystack. Not knowing what I’ll do when I find it.

I’ve never denied being there. I’ve never claimed to be innocent. The surprising part is that the world kept turning.

The years tumbling, stumbling along. As if nothing ever happened. And sometimes I have to wonder if maybe nothing did. Not out of the ordinary, anyway. Like walking for miles with a rock in my shoe. I could stop and shake it out, but I’m far too determined to get there. The pain little more than a distraction.

I can go back as far as I’d like but I cannot change a thing.