In a Land of Orrs
I notice the metal mesh work above my post-modern door frame. 18 months in this apartment and the gated community I have searched for in the arms of various men has been hanging above my head this whole time.
My mind lost in the wonder of the architectural bones of a house I can finally reference as home, I miss your words. You stand tall in my doorway, in an ash grey well-fitted coat I have never seen before. It differs from the rock band t-shirts, oversized hoodies, and run down adidas trainers you sport on every occasion. I think that’s what I miss the most, the feeling of total comfort in your presence.
Your foot holds the door ajar. A door you have pushed open hundreds of times before. Today, however, you hold your ground. Establishing a new boundary between us. You have found love in arms that are not my own — a love that must be lifted and respected above all else. You look at your phone, conscious of the time and repeat the question you asked what seemed like a lifetime ago.
Is it okay if I leave now?
You were late to meet her. Your new love. A love that made your irides glow brighter than the midnight sun.
How was I to tell you that I needed you more than the day you drove 230 miles to elevate me from the depths of grief? How was I to tell you that the warmth of your arms were the only things providing the faith to sail into better days?
Instead I take the coward’s route to salvation and spit, filled with hate, the words;
It doesn’t matter if you’re going to leave regardless.
I ascended the mountain of stairs to my loft apartment but the tears beat me to my destination. I play a supercut of the ramen we demolished and the joys we shared — laced with class A drugs, country rock and obscure cinematography.
A storm brews in my mind, as I ponder the things I wish I had told you. How, I know you are deserving of love and the finest elements of life — even if they were at a heavy levy that is our friendship.
If I knew now what I knew then, if I could go back; I would fall to second place or even 50th place to still be a part of your life, because you graced with me the home I longed for. You built windows in your eyes, a solid foundation from your chest and a bed to lay my wounded head in your heart. By the last sleep-inducing tear, I howled your name, desperate for your return.
In the months that followed, I crafted oars from the feral desires that parted the river of subconscious to release me from the drift of despair. I wish I had behaved differently. I wish I had scrubbed your back when life was unkind. I yearn for the desire to travel back in time to a place where our biggest concern was the dish that mounted around our feet and the mould that grew on your windowsill. Now I must search for freedom beyond your existence. I have painted my canvas with acrylic tones that distract me from you; podcaster, half marathon runner, ill-famed writer. The brushstrokes are wild and wrapped with a sweet longing for you. I build a masterpiece mirroring the works of Monet, hoping you still dream of me.
As I traipse through the Everglades, I search for soils that pull me closer to your Scottish roots — praying for the chance that one day soon, we could perhaps try again.
