A soft "ping" interrupts the restless dream I was about to succumb to. I see my phone at the end of my bed, a green light is blinking. A green light, far away. "Like Gatsby", I think. A symbol of hope, but ultimately, sadness. Oh, it's you. It's you. It's you!
I feel the pang. That one you get when someone says, "we need to talk". "This is all so old and cliché," I decide, as I imagine the bodies piled up in war. Those walled up in towers, burned at the stake, stoned, tortured, car accidents, murder. And who am I to suffer over you? You are not an implement of pain, except to me.
I feel the tears run down the side of my face. I think about what to say, but instead I wish you could see. Let my tears be the ink and they will write unspoken poetry as they trail down your neck.
I want to die of a broken heart, please forgive me. I want to take the path I know leads to a void where I will be left empty and alone, but all the while I travel through the velveteen darkness suffocating me... and the parties, and the shoes with the buckles that make it so I can lean into you just the right way, and the three drinks too many, and the couch with stories to tell, and the fact that I would do it over and over again just to write these poems on bar napkins for you, and I'm so tired but I am teeming with life.
