ravenously. I pet the one with a white underbelly before
moving upstairs & to the shower. I don’t give a damn
about actually bathing. I just need scalding water, deep pressure
against my skin—-I need to feel raw, baked, so alive
I feel dead. I turn off the water before sitting on the floor,
lightly shivering from the A.C., a beige towel over me & thinking
of our bodies, the smell of our sex, hurting myself. Or
you. Injury & love are one & the same. I pull on a pair of
loose-fitting boxers. I wait for the coffee to finish percolating.
I pour it. Outside, it’s almost too cool (& I’m too lazy,
now, to put on more clothes), but I light a cigarette &
watch the sun slowly rise. Fuck; the nicotine hits my lungs.
The caffeine helps, too. The birds have yet to start
their chirping. It’s dull. It’s a good morning for sex
& a lie-in, but there’s no one for that any more,
for me any more. Should I masturbate? No. I just want
morning kisses. Shut the fuck up & get over yourself,
goddamnit. I hear the first bird sing—-it’s not a mourning
dove; I mourn your leaving instead. I keep none of your things,
delete the remnants of you from my phone. The bird’s a robin.
My grandmother always said that their presence means it’s
officially spring. I know in my heart that I’ll love again,
but the poetic melancholic hubris makes it difficult not
to grieve, & the juxtaposition of my new loneliness against
the budding blooms & mating season stings.
I’ll love again. Or I’m doomed to isolation—-fucking
myself raw. I go back inside & close the curtains. The cats are waiting
for me. Brandy or wine? It’s now 7am. Damnit—-it’s too early.
I can go out & smoke again. The cats purr. Why do people
make quilts then voids in your soul? I choose liquor & another
cigarette. I’ll make love to myself later. Probably cry.
The tears flow now. I’m so goddamn pathetic, but sometimes
there’s nothing else you can do when you miss a lover
& know there’s no return. The cats play with a wool ball before
rolling over onto their backs & staring up at me.