Saturday, May 11, 2013

the Death of Romance.

I knew today would be a good day when I stood in the mirror and slid my undershirt over my head, backwards.
It’s so hard to think that every single day you want to take a blade to your throat, but you never end it.
He was in my shirt and boxers in the other room, cup of coffee steaming in both hands. Like every movie you’ve ever seen.
It was another day and I couldn’t help but see them blurring together, him standing in that light, right before the doorjamb of the bathroom, his toes hugging the thick carpeted floor.
He looked so damn perfect I almost stayed. But I couldn’t.
I kissed his cheek as I passed, placing my hand quickly on his hip as I did, refusing his touch as I passed. He stopped and watched me walk away. He never does that.
He liked to watch me shave and would always be excited when I accidently nicked the skin on my neck. He liked to see the thick red dot smeared on the blade then mixing with the perfectly clear water from the tap.
He always remembers our first date, when I actually asked him out and picked him up and held the door and his chair for him. And my ugly thrift shop shirt, white with a kind of floral pattern, button up with short sleeves rolled up like I was from the fifties. I guess that’s why he liked me.
I remember his body playing with mine, allowing itself to be felt and held and covered and riddled with sweat. I remember his kisses and his sweet stare, the way he looked in my eyes as I enlarged myself inside of him.
He knew I was destined for disaster, I just wish I’d seen it first. His coffee once a day, to wake up, was diminished in the eighty or so ounces I drank a day. Plus a pack of cigarettes. And six or so beers to end the day. But he never complained about the smell of my clothing, the way the smoke clinged to it. He never questioned my alcohol and nicotine breath catching his in the small moments we had time to kiss.
So why haven’t you done it yet? Just killed yourself? What keeps you here?
I didn’t have an answer so instead I kissed his forehead and headed to the kitchen to make myself a breakfast of black coffee. He asked if he was the reason and I couldn’t answer that either, so I slapped his ass and told him I’d see him later.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d never thought about it until he mentioned it.


Mind Of Mine said...

Woah. I loved this, is this your life or part of your writing work.

Mind Of Mine said...

So its an autobiographical piece?

LMB said...

All my writing - blog, novels, or other wise - is an autobiographical piece. Ghastly.