Losing, Not Yet Lost
I go for walks at midnight, watching as the sleet falls silently – silver strands of frozen air. I make three rounds of the block, with an eye out for drifting dreamers – and I bring you home every night.
When I get back with you and send you to the shower, I discover a singular strand of your hair on my shoulder. So I save it safely in the crease of my shirt and wish I had a little more of you to keep. But then, I realize how lucky I am to have something of you, without having to ask you for it.
I kiss you with existential sadness, the kind that is heavy and perpetually aware of itself, looming over us, twice everyday, at twilight and at dusk, reminding every time the sky is grey, that we are headed towards nothingness. We drink our teas on coffee-tables in a kitchen that is dank and listless in the aftermath of our neglect, and then we rise, two people who together aren’t enough human to make even one. We make love in grey beds some nights, not noticing if the other switched on the lights so we could note as the color of their eyes changed with the blood, as it surged, mild and apologetic, in the few moments of intimacy, or left the lamps off.
When I walk to work, I pass dead pigeons and people. The pigeons lie, petulant somehow, even in death; proud and bright on the gravel, stiff with frost shining off the tips of their wings. The people, a frozen, colorless, eyeless mass, march forever, tramping on the birds as they go, laying soot upon tiny wings, and crushing their bones under the weights of existence.
When I come home to you, we float together in helplessness, and grasp on to each other in desperation, like we had nothing more to feel, for a second, just for one – what it would feel like to feel what the pigeons felt just before they died.
Image source: flickr.com