Worseday
Dearest,
Someone asked me if I was going home today. Home, such a strange word. I don't have a home, I'm homeless. I live in a house. A cold, lonely place that I haunt like a specter in a horror film. I remember that night, that morning actually, going home without you. Without You. It was no longer a home. You were the life in this house, you were the life in me. All I wanted to do was come back here and die. I shouldn't even say that I live in this house since I'm mostly dead.
I remember what I said to you. You were already gone but I wasn't beleiving it, not for a minute, it just couldn't be. I said I was sorry that I was late, I was sorry for sleeping, I was sorry for going home. You died there in the company of strangers. My words echoed off the hospital tile, banal, inane words bouncing back at me, as if to mock me. So many things were left unsaid. We talked about the things we said that could never be unsaid but we never talked about the things left unsaid that should have been said. Things that should have been spoken every day over and over. We thought we had plenty of time.
Time, such a strange word. What does it mean? It has different meanings to different people. All the time we had was all the time we had. Ah but what a time we had. If only we had known how short it was, if only. Somewhere I imagine a single sparkling raindrop rolls off of a leaf in a rain forest and explodes on the head of a tiny colorful frog, in remembrance.
I was on the deck watching the snowfall. Falling. Or was I rising? It can be confusing. The spotlights cast my shadow on the snow on the deck. I thought about Poe, you knew that, And the spot lights over me streaming throws my shadow on the floor; and my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted. . . Nevermore.
I love you, I miss you, I'm glad you were in my life, Your Ken
Someone asked me if I was going home today. Home, such a strange word. I don't have a home, I'm homeless. I live in a house. A cold, lonely place that I haunt like a specter in a horror film. I remember that night, that morning actually, going home without you. Without You. It was no longer a home. You were the life in this house, you were the life in me. All I wanted to do was come back here and die. I shouldn't even say that I live in this house since I'm mostly dead.
I remember what I said to you. You were already gone but I wasn't beleiving it, not for a minute, it just couldn't be. I said I was sorry that I was late, I was sorry for sleeping, I was sorry for going home. You died there in the company of strangers. My words echoed off the hospital tile, banal, inane words bouncing back at me, as if to mock me. So many things were left unsaid. We talked about the things we said that could never be unsaid but we never talked about the things left unsaid that should have been said. Things that should have been spoken every day over and over. We thought we had plenty of time.
Time, such a strange word. What does it mean? It has different meanings to different people. All the time we had was all the time we had. Ah but what a time we had. If only we had known how short it was, if only. Somewhere I imagine a single sparkling raindrop rolls off of a leaf in a rain forest and explodes on the head of a tiny colorful frog, in remembrance.
I was on the deck watching the snowfall. Falling. Or was I rising? It can be confusing. The spotlights cast my shadow on the snow on the deck. I thought about Poe, you knew that, And the spot lights over me streaming throws my shadow on the floor; and my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted. . . Nevermore.
I love you, I miss you, I'm glad you were in my life, Your Ken
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