X. Sadness is a half-winged moth

We broke up. By the dishwasher, I think, in my parents’ old home. I was looking out the small paned windows above the sink. Flirtations of blue-green houseplant leaves framed my view. The lights in the kitchen were off, and the dishwasher was on. The gurgling and splashing came to me as if through a long tunnel. I did not feel much of anything.

It is one week later. I’m in the back of someone’s car, a person in every seat, and we’re driving down rainy city streets. Without warning, it crashes on me like a cartoon anvil. All air is crushed from my lungs. We broke up. We broke up? He’s gone. He’s gone? Yes…gone. Ten years is swiftly slipping into a back pocket, is being filed under some folder with a label woefully unable to characterize this past. I sense that my face is stretching into the dripping contours of the man’s in The Scream. And it keeps on stretching – into what, I don’t know. What is the shape of real sadness?

This sadness is a disbelief.
This sadness is a half-winged moth.
This sadness is an occlusion of the mouth and nostrils.
This sadness turns blue into orange and red into green.
This sadness is a starving meerkat laying its fragile jaw on the dusty ground, expiring.
This sadness is a visceral craving for his muscled arms enfolding me.
This sadness is a speckling over of his elliptical eyes and peanut butter skin.
This sadness is raw, pulsing, diseased.
This sadness is a prostitute with eyes blackened not by makeup.
This sadness is forgotten rice pudding, rancid in the back of an abandoned fridge.
This sadness is epileptic, or albino, or deformed.
This sadness is a hole dug through the belly of the earth, to China.
This sadness is addicted mothers and fathers, and the flayed hopes of tiny children.
This sadness is NOT nostalgia for our past. It is THIS SECOND, this vomitous second. I am falling into the sink of it, thinking fuzzily, frantically: how could we have…? When he is still the one I love most in this world?

But I can’t reason outside of the sadness. It has covered the sky and black-papered over the normal universe.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I awake and suction myself like a slug to his body, which is drippy with sleep. I thank my dreams. I thank their borders more.

~ by kingzoko on June 14, 2015.

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