To Say Goodbye

The rain outside was lazy, not even quite drizzling down and covering the world in a freakishly thick mist, giving everything an ephemeral quality that would make most anyone simply want to curl up and get back to sleep.

Not so with the blue-eyed man, who was awake in the wee hours, dressed and standing at an open window, watching the fog roll across the landscape. He shouldn’t even be here. It never made sense, these dreams. They couldn’t be, but they were, and they felt every bit as real as waking. He smoked a cigarette and frowned, lost in thought.

The whole house was eerily quiet, and only now and again could a man be seen checking his piece of the perimeter, from where he stood.

Even Claire was lost in dreams, pleasantly floating as though in utero, lost to herself and relaxed for it.

It was only he who was no longer sedate, and the tension in his stance was perhaps enough for everyone.

“If you had to run, because it was safer, for you and for them, to stay separate, would you?” he wonders quietly, not looking back toward her, still smoking. He raked his tousled hair back out of his face and put his hand back in his pocket.

Outside, the wind wasn’t blowing much, letting the fog reach greysilver fingers into the garden, misty and directionless.

In his suit and tie, he stared out across what felt almost like an empty world, where the whole of humanity rested curled up in bed, unaware of anything that could possibly be amiss.

He didn’t ask her again — he didn’t need her to. She’d do whatever she felt necessary. No matter what. Safer, not safer. Good for her, for them. She’d do what she thought was right.

He leaned to put out his cigarette, and added the bluegrey smoke of his exhale to the damp grey of outside.

“There’s things that need doing,” he said quietly, the only thing left to say.

He wanted to say he’d be back. He wanted to say that it wasn’t dangerous, wasn’t worrisome, and that when it was over, they’d be safe, and he’d be with her.

He wanted, more than anything, to not walk out that door. He wanted to know that if he did go and did come back, that nothing would have changed between them.

He settled for the fact that he got to say goodbye.

Even if that word never comes.

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Rhythmysticism

We are melting one another
you and I we’re put together
we are melting one another
and we’re not one or the other
where we all are put together
where we’re liquid with each other
when we’re lighting up another
and we’re melting with each other
til we’re dust and nothing other.

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Stef

Stars swam in her eyes within a field of red, a wash of glittering burn that left her dazed. “What?” she said aloud, looking around, bewildered. Stef Branford stared down at her tennis shoes, and then looked up toward where her husband been a moment ago, and then over to her shoulder, that he had been gripping, then down at her feet. She stood in an ever-widening pool of blood; it was deep enough to begin to soak into the fabric of her slippers (Fancy ouch shoes, is what her mother had called them) and it was hot enough to be uncomfortable, and confusing.

“Marc?” she said aloud, but her voice didn’t sound like her own. It was whistly, reedy, odd and shaking. “Marc?” she said aloud again, looking for her husband, and when she took a step, her soaked (fancy couch) slipper caught on something, and down she went in a heap. Her hands hit the floor, splashing in the blood, and drops of it hit her face. They felt like summer rain, and smelled like pennies.

She stood up and drew her hands up against herself, as though they were wounded, and then held them out and away, once she realized it was blood, and her voice came out again, shaky and almost whistling from her throat. “Marc?” she warbled. God, she sounded like her mother, in her last days, when fancy couch slipper turned into fucking cunt snapper and every morning was punctuated with the grey-faced matron straining a turd into her bedsheets just after the night nurse left.

“Marc, honey?”

She realized, after a moment, that what her fancy couch shoe had caught on was the curled fingers of her husband, who was laying on the floor. Her eyes traveled up, from the fingers that had left bruises on her shoulder, past the gnarled knuckles and the hairy wrist that disappeared into a shirt sleeve that ended in a ragged snarl of frayed plaid soaked and shining with blood.

She kept following the line of the arm, and it ended where Marc sat, propped up against the wall, his face staring forward, the back of his head grotesquely flattened outward, a pumpkin dropped from a great height, smashed into the concrete of the basement wall by some huge unseen hand. The same hand that must have torn off his arm and left it lying where she could trip over it.

Marc stared forward, unseeing, his eyes wide and watching nothing, and that’s when Stef felt the warmth running over her thighs. She looked down at the spreading patch of her own piss darkening her jeans, and said aloud, “Just as bad as Mama. Turnt my fancy couch shoes n denims to trash.”

When she heard her mother’s voice come out of Marc’s ruined lips, saying “Mama’s gon getchoo now, Steffie. Mama’s gon getchoo good,” she backed away, and tripped over Marc’s arm again. When she fell, her head smacked the floor like an egg on its way to an omelette, and she found blissful unconsciousness so she didn’t have to see her dead husband get up and peel the back of his head off the basement wall.

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The Holes That Make No Sense

Flick through
the inner story of me,
my tale, my
closed self, where
if you lick your
finger and
drag it over my
surface, I will
page for you

(just don’t walk away in the middle of
a chapter; the temptation to
dog-ear me will be
far too great)

and you can skim
the plot details,
and you can look
for the holes that make no sense,
and the points in time
where your willing suspension of disbelief
is most needed.
Read me through to the end,
and tell me how it goes.

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The Edge of Heaven

Don’t cry.

Don’t mourn this parting.

It is not forever that we say goodbye, but only for now — only for a moment, even — and even this is not yet a loss, for nothing can truly separate us. Nothing can truly keep our hearts divided — not even for a second.

I believe that one day you and I will join together again, on the shores of some far-off world, toes dug into a distant soil, brows shaded beneath a foreign sun. When you see me, I will turn my gaze to you and you will meet my eyes. I will call out to you, and you will call in return. I will lift my hand to you, and when our fingers touch, every sun that ever was will rise, and the skies will run with flame.

The worlds we have touched will come alive, and sing in exaltation that we are reunited.

In those moments where we exist in togetherness, where all who witness us are flinch-eyed from the brightness of our glory and triumph, we will reach up and take hold the edge of heaven, pull it from the sky, and make it our own.

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