The Neverness.

1.

It wasn’t until the last bells of noon began to sound, that I awoke, alone and confused. At first, I didn’t think it possible. The definite image of her body beside me felt irremovable to my skin. My skin, heavy with thick summer sweat and her imagined scent. Her scent, a bouquet of fresh summer rain. But, as my deadened hand moved through the endless amount of sheets to reach her, there was nothing but more and more sheet. And within each thread of that sheet, complete emptiness and despair.

Loneliness was the first word to snap in my thoughts, as I stood, still hearing the bells strike and the birds sing though the windows, that were left open all night. The bells seemed to be screaming with every thud of the hammer, “loneliness, loneliness.” And then died away, only to be replaced by the silence of a hushed breeze beating it’s way into the room. Alone. With no one, nothing. Not even a trace of memory spread about the room. Nothing. Nothing but the Algerian whiteness of the walls staring back at me and my newly abandoned self.

“There are better things to do than dwell...” I said, shaking my head. I feel ill. I feel as though a great wound has been opened up along the side of my body and everything is falling out.

The mirror mocks me from across the room. I hate the site of my face. I can see it playing with my reflection, as if wearing a smile. My misery is a thing to be laughed at. I can hear it laughing quietly to itself, now, saying “I told you so.”

It’s begun to rain.

And, now I can smell her presence in the absence again.

“No more pain,” I think to myself, “sleep, and when you wake again, leave this place.” The sheets go round my body covering every inch of skin. I don’t want to be seen. Not by the walls, the mirror, the books, the rain. I want to be nothing inside a room swollen with so many something’s.

She’s been gone seven days.

I sleep and hope to forget.

2.

“I don’t know how I should exist for you.” She says, looking at me with her earth bare eyes. Her fingers are curling in and out of her palm, she does this when she’s nervous or scared. I want to hold her in this moment forever but, it will inevitably pass like so many others.

“As you are.”

“Really? Because you don’t seem to care too much for me the way I am.”

“That’s not true. Stop it. You know, this subject is absolutely absurd. How many more times do we have to go over this? There’s more love in my heart for you than I’ve ever had for anyone else.”

I look away. I know it’s wrong to look away, but if I give her my full attention things will grow worse.

“I don’t think that’s saying much. You’re not a man of feeling or even a man full of heart.”

“Thank you, really, thank you.” I say, and smile bitterly. “I think I’ll leave now. “ But, I don’t leave. I just move closer to the fountain, looking for all the possible exits within the park and watch as people come and go, wishing I were one of them. We used to be so happy here. Was that so long ago?

Once, in this park, on the bench she so angrily sits upon now, she said to me, “Your breath smells like Christmas,” and kissed me. Now, she no longer kisses me. I’ve ceased to exist for her and she, for me, or so I tell myself.

Behind me, I hear her fumbling with her things. Looking at her self in her tiny mirror, plotting what she’ll do next.

“I can’t do this. I don’t love you.”

3.

The rain has stopped. But, it’s still gray. I dread the way that sky always makes me feel.

There are puddles on the floor from the rain. When I look at them, I can see an evening light rising and the damp curtains curl in the ripples created by a heavy breeze. She is in every one of those ripples. Her curves dance for me. They make me think of Van Gogh’s “Cypresses and Stars.” The only portrait that was to ever find itself stuck to her wall. She is moving so beautifully. The only dancer of my heart. It’s hard to stop looking at that spot on the floor, without wishing I were with her, threaded so tightly together, there’s no room to breathe. We’ve stopped breathing for one another, though. How have I gone on existing? Poorly, if at all.

I’m asleep, now and dreaming.

“Sing me to sleep, boy.” She say’s. “I’m so tired and need to sleep.” Her arms push under his. He’s not me. He has hair like Christ and a long bald face. They’re asleep now. Asleep. I’m watching them, knowing he’s not me. I don’t know what to do. He’s not me. She’s let her hair down and it’s going all over him. It’s not me there. Not me. I feel a pushing in my stomach and my eyes are starting to hurt. Everything turns gray.

There I am, I can see me. I’m alone and crying. There are rose petals all around me and little yellow birds weeping and screaming. They’re coming from the furrows made in my wrists. I see me and cry for the me crying, thinking of her and her forever gone, golden skin. I’m looking at myself looking at them, in bed and in love. She’s not letting go. There are furrows in my wrists with little yellow birds and rose petals slipping out. I’m not waking up.

“Sing me to sleep, boy. I’m so tired and need to sleep.” She say’s, but not to me.

The thunder wakes me, alone and trembling. I don’t wanna go back to sleep. It’s all gone for me.

The bells have begun to sound. It’s morning and I have to leave. I have to put on the jacket and tie my father brought over and try hard not to let her mother see me like this.