(not sure exactly when this was written – June or July
2012, is my best guess)
I see you walking around upstairs, a swish of skirt this
time, which is rather odd.
I’ve not seen you dressed like this before, though I
have often envisioned you like this, long legs stretched out before me like an
invitation.
You always seem to strut around as if owning the place. And
I think, maybe you do.
And I wonder who you're waiting for upstairs, and then I
catch sight of you looking down, frowning, maybe curious, at me, thinking maybe
I’m Harry Potter in my little cubby hole between the stairs.
I want to come upstairs and talk to you, or have you
come down and talk with me – even now, even when things seem strained. I ache
to get another drink with you, the one I did not get with you last time, and
maybe you won’t want to get one with me now.
These are hard thoughts for a place as hard as this,
where there is always hubbub and people who are too curious to know what is
none of their business.
People go to and come from the owner’s office upstairs
or from the kitchen, or even that man cave where our temporary boss resides.
How could I imagine approaching you in this madhouse, or
even find you receptive if I did.
No privacy in a place as stark as Port Authority bus
terminal. I feel completely exposed, even more so now with what I'm thinking.
The office gossips eye me when I move too far from my
cubby hole, as if they can reason my mind, as if they know everything that goes
on behind all the closed doors, when I can only imagine.
We live for our dreams, and keep them a close secret
when they pose a danger, knowing that if I let out what I sometimes imagined,
someone would put me in chains or a straight jacket, and so I curl up inside
myself, and paint a picture of what I want yet can never have, trying to recall
what it felt like to touch you, kiss you, and … well, all the rest.
And yet, it is pure self-torture, real nor not, as if I
am striking myself with a whip and pretending to enjoy it, when each lash only
reminds me of what is beyond reach, which others have, which I will never have
again.
I think of how lucky the man is upstairs, and how much I
envy him, how little he cares about the fiction you have created with him, he
loves being mentor and maybe more.
It is excruciating to imagine you in his arms, although I
suspect he would be as gentle and kind in that as he has been when he tries to
protect you.
Do his kisses taste as sweet as yours? Do you feel safe
when his strong arms wrap around you? Does he comfort you at night before he
has to leave? Do you miss him when he’s gone, recalling just where he went and
what he did, and how good it made you feel?
These are thoughts that plague me, and I hate even
thinking them, shutting myself off, locking my brain up with what I am supposed
to be doing rather than what I wish I could be doing, this inevitable loop, as debilitating
as rolling a boulder up a hill to have it roll back down the other side.
I try to imagine being him, doing all those things men
like him are able to do, able to feel, able to believe, this sense of loss as
big as space.
I see you parading on the floor above me, as if you own
this place, own us all, and maybe you do.
And I wonder, do you even suspect what goes on inside
me, my head, the self-inflicted wounds still bleeding, you blameless even
though at times I have blamed you – stabbing the back of my hand with a fork as
you said, but it is not the fork or the brick wall that brings the most pain,
it is my imagination, stirring up pictures of things I can’t even close my eyes
against, it is not the hardness of the wall that leaves my forehead bruised,
but something infinitely more pleasant, and thus much more painful, the touch
that will never touch, the kiss that will never kiss, the bed never shared, except
in my mind with him or someone other than me sharing it.
I see you up the stairs parading as if you own the
world. Perhaps you do.
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