Love Don’t Live Here: Journal Entry 82

There is a storm here. Yes, I am so sure. It is antiquated and beastly, and it will tear off our working parts. Certain shit doesn’t work anymore. Pale goodbye’s, stale hello’s. What’s at stake is far greater than anything ever held in these hardened hands of mine. We were so cold to each other, so cold. So cold, the air would crack at the exhales of it. I saw it happen that moment I stood in front of my building, damning the moon over an earpiece, screaming and yelling loudly. The colors out of my mouth were bright red, yellow 52 out of the box. You, your silence deafening still, muted by the weight of the sky between us now since you packed and left. I tried to catch some of you — a scarf, a beanie, a peeling picture frame, a notepad, your favorite pen you’d write all your ideas down on and in and around and through, like some automatic freight train always prepared to run from the station.

I ask where will I be without you now, here in this cardboard cutout replica of a room that housed us and these missing memories. I start counting the ways I miss you on my fingers but I am losing count and blood and tears so I save them for a rainy day. Clouds have a language too, I remember telling you one day after breakfast in an unmade bed, filled with loud body aroma and kitchen sex. I nibbled at you, and you giggled and asked me to explain. I was always forgetting shit around you. Always neglecting shit around you. I found myself around you, and lost him again. I’m burning things. The traces I can find lingering that may be keeping me from making something last. I’m purging. My therapist would applaud. The studio audience would sigh. I just wanna keep you warm, like I used to. I’m still trying to learn the langauge of the clouds, though. My hope is when I figure this out, you’ll come back home. That’s enough for me.