Fade to 4:39am and this ambiguous structure of words that need to be stretched out, stripped out, and then torn out to extrapolate the pain floating in my head.
Who knew laying in bed since 9pm would make 4:39am so deadly? To be awake, to be energized, but then to be surrounded by stillness, is destructive.
It is in 4am – I can’t do anything.
So, I think. Thinking is dangerous.
Dramatically. I’m thinking of her.
I thought I was thinking of her because I wanted to win her back. But now awake, I know I don’t. We’re forever gone.
The only thing I do know right now is that there are images of her that I must write, so I can dream of other things to make me sleep…
1am never felt so cold. I held my jacket close to my body as I played a tug-o-war to the weight of my backpack, filled with a laptop and books, the backpack was telling my body that it had been a long day and it needed rest.
I was waiting outside for the lady to open her Apartment complex which would then lead to warm bedsheets, microwaveable leftover home cooked food, and a conversation melodically sound as if it were a lullaby to help us close our eyes to sleep.
Before this could happen she had to walk down the stairs. And, she did. Through the curtains of the door, making it unaware I could see from the outside – in… I saw the dimples of her cheeks form as she began to smile as if God was blessing me with the most angelic woman in the world.
Carefree – barefeet – as if to say that each step forward meant one step closer to happiness. To her, in that moment, I was hers. And in that moment, she was mine.
Her heart gave me soul and spirit all in one fucking moment. Her hands about to open the door, but she stopped. She stopped. Then she turned to the side and found herself looking at herself in the long overarching mirror that reflected the mailboxes from across the wall. She leaned in close to the mirror, and did what we all do before a first date.
She got ready.
Here she was, dating a worn out guy who was knocking on her door at 1am. And, my grunginess didn’t matter to her. Though we had been going out for more than five years, though for the past few weeks I was beginning to look disheveled and unfortunate, she still wanted to make sure that before she opened the door, before I looked at her, before we even got to say “hello…” She wanted to make sure she looked good.
The lady didn’t have to open the door for me to call her beautiful. She was fucking gorgeous. Our souls connected, our hands held, our love never felt so strong that the door seemed to open itself and we found ourselves holding each other as if we were never going to hold each other again.
It was a scene.
Writing it now makes my mouth parch and my hands quiver to the beat of my eyes as I try to get a grip of what isn’t and what is.
I’ll always remember.
I have another. But my alarm just went off and I need to go.
Thanks for listening.
My bedroom – Daly City, CA