I’ve drawn the Art Boy in so many different mediums

That he has become

2 Dimensional.

Even in real life.

I have him hanging on my wall, blue on blue. You see,

It was done in pastels so I chose a base color before I colored

Him. So now his skin shows spots of that Caribbean Sea background

She had an Ocean once. I never met him. It’s better not to, now that global warming

Has made him dry up. Vanish. Not even a trace of him on the internet

(And that’s the first place I looked apart from Her eyes)

She is so much different from everyone, has so much feeling, so much heart

(So much drive)

She is not the DVD Girl I used to love

No, not that She has changed, it is that they were never the same person

Two women

Separate bodies

Not even in the same state.

But distance doesn’t really matter, like age, or blood type, or size. It’s phone service

That matters

How can I talk to Her without that?

I do not talk to the DVD Girl much anymore since she’s become a shimmering

Circular object that I can see the reflection of myself in, except it’s distorted

But I talk to Her

I listen to Her speak with soft tones and sharp accents, painting images with shaky

Acrylics

(Sweetheart, that stuff ain’t gonna come out of the carpet, much less my heart)

The more I look at the Art Boy, the more hideous he becomes

The more I notice my mistakes

I’ve smudged his face: neck, eyes, mouth, the curve of his shoulder and you can see

My fingerprints and the blurring of the colors from flesh to that pale blue-green

More blue than green and more like my eyes than a lagoon

What scares me is that I don’t know what color Her eyes are, but I think they’re green

I’m a college education and an MBA away from being that person who takes

Too much over-the-counter medication for minor professional stressors

Like I already do, whenever I feel like it

Flu-cold-vomiting-shakes-chills-fevers-whatever anyone wants to diagnose me with

“Why don’t you stay home?” She asks

Because I cannot do make-up work or manage to think if I don’t just muscle through it

But after forty-five minutes of vomiting like a withdrawling junkie

And twitching

And feeling that every piece of clothing is too rough for my skin

It’s time to give up and admit

No amount of Advil can cure that ache that you’ve given to me, babe

It’s just like food-poisoning

Tasted good going down ,but you don’t want to feel it when it comes back up

And after a while, I don’t even know what I’m puking

I can’t identify the contents of my stomach

Or my blood-stream

I don’t know why I do what I do sometimes

Why I go for no pay to a place where I must constantly repeat a new mantra

Today’s was:

URINE IS STERILE. URINE IS STERILE. URINE IS STERILE…

Vomit is not. Fecal matter is not. Blood is not. Bodies are not.

She cannot bring herself to care, because She is tired

The Ocean has ground her down, eroded the core of her, and by doing that

It has tired me out

She was warm when I put my arm around Her and breathed in

The scent of her shampoo and skin mixed with the light I wanted to turn off

And the remains of dinner on my breath, except I don’t remember what it was

One in the morning makes me forget things

The Art Boy is still staring listlessly but what do I expect?

He’s basically void of emotion and depth and eyebrows

Forgot to color those

There are streaks of charcoal so light they don’t qualify

And streaks of green for his eyes

Even though that’s not his real color

So what do you want?