I hope, your life is full of friends and laughter. I hope there’s someone beside you who can make you smile. And if someone’s in your bed, I hope he’s a tiny gentleman– because I’ve been, less than. I seem to be awash in a sea of in-congruent shapes, each one more obtuse and mismatched than the last as they dance across my feet and press themselves against my breast. I find myself disappearing halfway through conversations of first impressions, daydreaming through coffee and pleasantries, and losing interest over half-empty bar glasses.
I keep my eyes open and my heart racing just in case, this practice of patience has got me tripping in my laces before I even start. Honestly I can’t take this waiting. I’m ready to be a stooped old man holding your hand as we argue about cabbages or the ages of our grandchildren. I’m ready to buy lamps, and dishware, and put down roots. I’m ready for you.
But in truth, I’m not ready for anything. I’m a boxer who’s just finished nine rounds of someone else’s fight. Seven and two and it’s a wonder I’m still standing, with not a single blow landing but the self destruction percussion of my heart. And I want you to be neither resting stool, nor bed for mending. No you deserve me in the morning when I’m first waking, not when I’m returning breaking from a beating and still mourning in the shaking wake of my mistakes. You deserve the very best, but he’s not here right now and if you could leave a message, or a voice mail or a text, and he’ll be right around the corner, once the coroner declares him dead.
I saw him in the mirror just the other day. He smiled and made a face as if to say, eventually these wounds heal. Eventually we rest our head in a place called home. But for now, I walk alone.
Because beginnings matter,
if it’s a proper ending we’re after.
And I am.
So until then.
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