Swat

He sat upright in the bed he had made with the intention of impressing company. His eyes, once boring holes in the door his heart willed open, now lazily sank into their sockets. It was past 2.  She had said she would arrive at 1. He was in need of sleep, yet found the respite he sought would only come with her. She often swat in him in the middle of the night, but he did not mind. He liked to think it was her subconsciously lurching for his attention. It calmed him to think that she was not aware she always had it.

 Those assurances had long since left him as he sat alone in his dark room. His mind fit together scenario after scenario of the cause of her absence. Somehow, it always left him with the image of her in another bed. swatting another figure.

(This is a beginning in need of a middle.)
(...an end would be useful as well.)

Confident, Oh Confidant

Ode to muse and the idea of you:

You are a figment of my imagination.
Sorry that had to come out, but someone
really had to tell you before things got weird.
You're not real.
I conjured you from ideas of how people should act
and speak
and appear
before my very eyes and under my eyelids
I stole you.
You're a ripoff of all the warmth and energy
a human can exhibit.
(but at least I get to keep you.)
The dialogue we have is but
perversions of memories of those departed
and departing
(mostly by train, but some bus too.)
often hurried, though there were enough who
took the time to say good bye.
You're potential.
The realization of bad dreams and day dreams,
you walk across my synapses and then crash land
onto the stage before me.
I, your director, edit your speech and demeanor in real time.
There are several takes,
you almost never get it right
but I appreciate your flexibility, obedience
(as if you had the choice.)

You do manage to get me in trouble sometimes --
leading me down rabbit holes I
can't escape without tracking dirt on my soles.
No one really appreciates the airing of dirty laundry,
even if that's what it takes to become clean.
But it's never really that easy, is it?
I rehearse with you, tweaking and shifting,
creating nuance until you are completely
and utterly unrecognizable.
(and mine.)

Kindred

I wish I had lived on your freshman hall.
everyone abuzz with the promise of a new friend,
bedmate, study buddy, adderall hookup
signal loneliness with an open door
as night owls we'd flock together,
and by that I mean
I would find myself in the common space to be
privy to your late night delirium,
your existential crisis/es,
your drunken stumble,
whether you needed me or
not
I would take comfort knowing that someone found my jokes laughable,
my problems relatable,
my dreams worthwhile,
to the public, we would be almost-misanthropes but alone
we would drown ourselves in idealism and insist
our goals were substantive
Though we'd dwell in the sarcasm reserved for
those whose anger simmered, never quelled,
our kindred impulsivity would be the kind that
requires a certain kind of optimism.
We would
document our many firsts together,
as freshmen are wont to do and
the pictures would instill memories that could
triumph the limits of space and time.
you would tell me it was I who could keep you on track
to making the world something less farcical
and I would
take this perceived influence as a badge of pride
We'd match our yearning for understanding with
the right book,
as if that could keep us connected when
more than a hallway separated our minds.
Our geographic proximity would be replaced by
the active desire to seek each other out
when life got hard, or someone was easy.
Or, convenience could triumph.

I never had a muse until I met you.

Big Kids

1: Can we have sex when you're done?

2: (closes laptop) I'm done.
(Places laptop on coffee table. He stands up slowly, straightens pant leg, and walks over to the couch where she is sitting.)

1: Oh. Well I didn't mean to --
(She is cut off. He scoops her up in one swift movement and proceeds towards the doorway, leading to their shared bedroom. Upon reaching the unmade queen-sized bed, he places her down gently. She looks up at him, still standing, expectantly.)

2: (He sits down and turns to her.) Have we really reached the point where you have to ask me if we can have sex?

1: I didn't want to interrupt. You've been so busy lately. (She looks down in her lap.)

2: (Dwells on her statement and then offers) What are we going to do?

1: (Appears defeated) I don't know. I want this to work. I'm trying to make this work.

2: (Sighs.) And I haven't been. I'm sorry.

1: Are you going to try?

2: I want to say that I will. But there are going to be many more 70-hour work weeks. Many more nights when I'll come home with a report and an excuse.

1: I can understand that. I guess we're just different (looks up, focusing intently on his face) because when I'm exhausted after a rough day at the office, I just want to spend time with you. (She surveys the damage.)

2: (Pained.) I promise that it's not that I don't want to, or that I don't care. I do. I'm not sure how to convince you of that.

1: I know that you care. I just wish it was as much as you care about your job.

2: Oh, come on. Don't say that to me.

1: It's not that it's wrong, or that I fault you for it. It's just how it is. I accept it.

2: How long do you think that will hold out?

1: Long enough, maybe.

2: This shouldn't be this hard.

1: But shouldn't it? We want to have...everything. How could we have expected everything to just magically come together?

2: It's what we were promised.



(To be fixed/continued/fixed)