Here At The End - 1-22-09
I'm crying again.
Yes, I'm crying for him again. So sue me.
I look at him, but its dark out here, on the street, in the truck. I can see the light from a distant street lamp gleaming on his left eye. His right one is all shadows when he looks back. Just a mirror image from our last conversation. Everything is washed out, shadowed over in darkness. Looks just like my heart feels right now. I wipe my tears away again. Blow my nose again. My nose always runs when I cry. I hate that. And I'm almost out of tissues, but no where near out of tears. I suck in a breath, box up the pain. I have got to hold myself together, get through this and still drive home. Last time I nearly killed some people... I don't really remember it, but it wasn't pretty.
This isn't pretty. I can't stand not seeing him, so I turn on the cab light. My breath catches in my throat, just like it always does when I see him. He is so beautiful. Handsome and hott are so base... they never really covered what he is, so I always used beautiful and gorgeous. I wonder if that bothers him? He looks tired. He looks worse than I do, and I've cried for a week straight. Since he said he doesn't care any more. How does that make sense any ways? His eyes are dead looking. His hair is ragged and pushed back so I know he hasn't showered yet, his cheeks are so sunken. Its only been a week, what happened?
Talking won't change anything, he says, but I don't understand. I need to understand, that is all I ever tried to do was understand him. He is such an enigma. Maybe that is why I fell for him. Always a puzzle to solve, questions to ask, memories to dig up. Just like I always wanted to be. But I'm too open, to careless with myself to be a puzzle like that. All it takes is the right questions and I'll tell you everything. Not him. No, not him. He's always closed up, except for the stories. So many stories that it makes my head spin. Talking with him about his stories is like reading a fast library of fiction novels. He is so brilliant, yet he cannot see it.
I'm really trying not to cry, not to waste this short time with him in tears. I tell him I miss him, I want to fix things... I ask him what went wrong. All I get are bland, dark answers, meant to stab daggers in his own heart. Can't he see its hurting me? Or is his purpose to make me hate him? No, he can try, but I can't stop loving him. Hate would hurt more than this. I ask him what is wrong, he glares at me and says he can't tell me. He isn't really made for glaring. He is better at laughing, his laugh lines come out around his eyes, and he gets dimples in his cheeks. He comes alive when he laughs, and it is so infectious. Just the memory makes me smile. I ask him if he remembers the good times, the stupid things we did. Some memory brings that smile up, for a brief second his green eyes come alive, and then its gone again. I want to cry. I push him, dredging up favorite moments, when he held me in his arms, when we made fools of our selves, when we were with friends. I finally got that laugh, just a small one. It makes me cry again, but I'm smiling at the memories too.
It isn't enough. I beg him again, gently this time. Not like last time, when I stepped away and screamed my pain to the heavens. He gets that dead look again and refuses. Says there is nothing left. That I would hate him if I knew what he really was. But I do know, I said, I know your very soul, Lover. I have looked into your eyes and seen what you are, and I love you because of what I saw there. He has no argument for that. What can you say when someone loves you because of your faults? I ask him if I can try to unlock his heart again, start over from the beginning, just like when we never knew we could love each other. He says it would never be the same, but I tell him I think he is worth every moment of it.
I ask him not to cut me off, not to push me away. That I care about him and I want to know he is okay. I can't stand the space between us. I crawl across the seats until I'm beside him. Not like I once would have, he's too cold for that now, but close enough I can touch his face. I do, as I try to stir his emotions from this dead place with my words, with old familial touches. Tears run down my cheeks. I'm out of tissues now so I do my best to stop crying.
He doesn't pull away, he leans against my hand on his cheek, and the pain in his eyes is like my own. What is he doing? I run my fingers across his face, like I always have, feeling with my hands the beauty I see with my eyes. Trying to capture the feel, one last time. I don't ever want to forget. His high cheek bones, his nose, so refined compared to mine, his high brow, one I always though fit for nobility. His jaw is hidden, he hasn't shaved in a long time, and his beard is long. I always complained about it, but secretly I really do like it. His neck is hot under my trembling palm, and I run my fingers through his hair. Its so long now, I know it can't have grown that much in a week. I guess I just hadn't realized. I always loved his hair. No ordinary color ever fit it. He calls it brown, but I've always been at a loss for words for the color. Sometimes I call it pewter blond, because when the light hits it, it looks like pewter to me.
He yawns, its late. I shiver at the thought of parting. I ask him to hold me and wrap my arms around him. His shoulders are so broad I have to settle for one of those and his neck. I bury my face against him and I can smell him. It makes me cry because I will never be able to fall asleep in his t-shirt again, smelling him and knowing he will be there tomorrow. Hot tears run down my face, and I feel bad for crying on him, so I wipe them away. He wraps his arms around me and holds me while I cry. For just a moment it was like nothing was wrong, and I wanted him to whisper 'I love you' in my ear again, like he always did. He didn't though. He says he doesn't care any more. I hold onto him like a drowning person holds a floaty. Finally, I make myself pull back, and I hold his face in my hands, making him meet my gaze.
He looks so guilty. So he should be. He looks so sad. I want to heal his wounds.
"I love you," I whisper, "With all my heart." And I press my lips on his. He pulls back from me. He says he has no right to kiss me because he doesn't care anymore. I tell him I didn't care either, and I have every right to kiss him, because I still love him. I suppose it is a sort of torture, kissing me, holding me, and knowing he is killing me, but he does as I ask and kisses me back. He kisses me with passion, just like always, just like there is nothing wrong. Its like our first kiss, under the cold stars, in his arms. I still feel like I have a hold of a live wire everywhere my skin is touching his. I think he feels it too, but I don't know.
And then the bittersweet kiss is at an end. I can hold him here no longer. I slide back across the seat. He steps out of the truck and wishes I would hate him for this, because it would be easier. Pain tears through me, pain that he is punishing himself for some sin unknown to me, pain that he is hurting me. I face him, tears escaping my pathetic attempts to lock them up, and tell him that Hate is easy, but Love takes courage. Then he says good bye, he calls me by my first name, which he never did before, he always called me by my middle name, and then he closes the door. I want to stop him, tell him not to call me that. To tell him that I'll always be his girl, but he's already gone into the shadows and the light has made the windows mirrors. I can see myself, distorted, in the glass. I look like a dead person. My eyes are dead. My heart beats in me no more.