Bits from the diary of an insomniac (II)
I am not sure what will turn out of this night.
It’s your heel that keeps me awake; then your wrist, then your cheek bone. Not so much them as their image and contour, their pale shade and sharpness, and their absence, foremost.
It’s the memory of your voice, so clear, melted in the salty scent of whatever substance I laid on my kitchen floor to rid of the roaches — the ones that came to keep me unrequested company.
Maybe it’s just the hot air currents that keep pushing through the cracked window, into my room, in this maddeningly torrid summer.
Or maybe it’s the little pills that I am taking, the ones my doctor gave me when I turned mad after you left.
The ceiling is close to my eyes, and I see marks on it that look like footsteps, leading to unconsciousness. I see little bloody dots, from the squashed mosquitos that have feasted on my body. I wonder if one of them might have bitten you as well, that last night, when you laid your head on this very pillow. Could it be that there is a trace of your blood skillfully printed on this white canvas wall, like a brilliant Pollock with your signature DNA in it?
You left yet another mark in here. One that won’t come out with soap and water. The dip in the mattress made by your shoulder — visible to my eyes only, burned through my retina, just like every inch of you, every little bit that had weight and colour and life once, and laid right here, next to me.
This moving image, that is my sleepless night, is like the genius work of art of a very troubled artist. He ripped your face out of this picture, and left a wavy carcass to tell a nostalgic story. He tried to sculpt joy and ended up signing a crooked lifeless script, on a used napkin. We appreciate sad art. Not so much the hurt that brought it to life.
I am trying to fall asleep. Then again, all of this is surreal enough to be a dream, why bother switching to another — that one too will surely contain your skin, these sheets, the roaches, the sweat from the heat, and a soundtrack of your voice telling me “bye”… or “hi”, or “high”…I can never tell.
Guess I already fell (asleep, or down, or in love, or just fell; and broke my arms and my heart; I`m not broken, just broke; I was left without a cent - the scent of you; and now sleep is all I have to get your absence to stop shouting at me).