Book of Love is Long and Snoring (Part 2)

So many medicine bottles, you wonder how much will be used up. The 3 a days go pretty fast, but the 30 pills for the upcoming month seems like so much for a man with such a little future ahead.

The bottles and the dishes and the layers of stuff from a hoarder cover up his past, but not enough. You still see the photos. His family. You. The gold record he got, covered with cat hair. The album you did with him. Pride of place on the mantel. Nothing in front of it (because there is no room, but still, you smile)

Funny how love drains out. Like water, you overfill it on a hot day, an outdoor kiddy pool, so much that it runs over the side. And one day you look out and not only is the pool empty from a leak, but it is the kind of cold where you can’t ever remember the sun on your face. The bathing suit and the shorts seem so insufficient. You chill at the memory.

There was a time this man made you shiver. You were too nervous to speak. He made a funny face when he saw that you were terrified. Oh no, another one paralyzed by my beauty. It really makes me feel like Nedusa. 

Your hair isn’t right for Medusa.

You think of your young self.

Trying. There’s got to be some love in there. 

But no. Just like with all the other boys. Even L. Even after he killed himself, you were torn apart. But now, nothing comes. Maybe it’s good that your insides are hollow. 

There used to be a time when you (actually both of you) were surrounded by people. Friends, you thought. But maybe they were just fans (people who were nice when it was easy to be nice).

Nobody is going to miss you if you don’t go home tonight. They won’t even miss you at work, although you like to think they will.

There was a time when you were young, when there was so much in front of you. People told you the best part was health and beauty and openness and making mistakes. But it was also the openness. All the doors you could open, people you could talk to and now , you don’t have the energy or the interest to do anything new.

You can’t even find the girl who loved him. although you suspect it will be like a strange language, or a song you can’t recall, but you hear it and suddenly, you know every word.

Like you know his snoring. More ragged now, but comforting. Like in all those motels.