Details don’t matter.
There is so little that does tonight, ensconced in an unmade, entirely autopsied bed.
I am paying attention to all the hearts I’ve just found streaked across the floor in a pulpy, glistening, crimson parade. Each one beating out a march to put Souza to shame. Mine’s there, my sister’s, my mother’s, my countless bosses’, probably yours, too, even if you might find its absence a bit of a surprise.
All these hearts that are striving towards something, and in that striving, they’ve found pain. They’ve found the sharp splinters in the floorboards. Nobody put them there to hurt them, but the wood just wore down. Heartless though I may be, you rather want to pick them up and let them writhe on marble or at least some higher quality laminate. Making the way smooth as you can so nobody gets caught on the edges that caught you.
But heartless I am, so I find myself watching.
It’s a lonesome evening, even in the company of my thoughts. I want you to exist in corporeal form. I want me to have already overcome my obstacles. I want to have what I want in the way that I want it in the timeframe that pleases me best. All day long I hear the gods laughing. Drives me to distraction.
There was an argument in the parade of hearts and I thought that if it were mine to bear, my sorrow, my sadness, my frustration all overflowing out of the urn the water-bearer carries her heart in, if it were my fight…I’d not have fought.
I would have turned to balm so quickly when you turned to let it go. I would not have wanted to suffer it a moment longer than you wanted it. I would not have needed just to say it to your face as though you did it and with malice, neither of which is true…just to make the point that I ache.
But I know why she had to. I respect that she had to assert the truth she saw, the hit she felt she was taking. It made her feel less lonely to do it. We are different people, different souls, different hearts, different beats. I would not doubt her sincerity for a moment.
Still, it would have fallen out of my hands, out of my chest like quicksilver. Because these facts of fate and deadlines broken and trials endured matters so much less to me than the idea of sitting besides someone who calls me darling and being at peace with them. Offering them succor when the world encroaches.
I could offer you that.
If I am sad about anything, it is a sadness that I can’t offer you that.
In Australia, there are pink lakes. They look like they are filled with Pepto Bismol. These have existed all of this time and I never knew about them until just right now.