day

At 5:57 am this morning I awoke to a signal of organized chaos -- the hellish rhythm of my alarm clock.
Symptoms of disorientation: no sense of direction, complete confusion, loss of position, belief that the cosmic magnets are invalid and impotent.
This was disorientation.
I struggled to analyze the moment. Do the red digits actually read 5:57? Is it morning? Evening? Why this cruel hour? Where am I needed? Work? Surgery? A funeral?
Then I felt the weight of her ghost upon my paper heart.
And then I found myself.
I extinguished the dreadful sound of 5:57, rolled onto my back and gazed into a ceiling void of color.
And she was once here.
A Monet framed by this bed of cotton and spring, a masterpiece I had dared to touch with trembling fingertips, her warm body of blood and beauty was once here.
Whose brush strokes composed such immaculate features? A delicate face (so exquisite), two lips (petals of tender flesh), two ears (one beautifully flawed), her neck (a tender stem), supple breasts (blossoms) and other infinite wonders that confound minds of logic and truth.
She was here. Warm and glowing.
We touched. We danced. We embraced. And everything was new and raw like the birth of creation. Sapphire flames kindled her eyes and an earthquake churned in my belly.
We removed our clothes and attempted to explain the universe with a silent language, a graceful language. Hands sticky with perspiration moved over galaxies of flesh. Nebulas erupted. Supernovas stimulated neurons. And she was beautiful, dancing and diving, rising and writhing, twisting in seas of sheets and skin while planets burned and moons ignited.
And she was once here.
I gazed into a ceiling void of color, and thought, I could have stayed there forever.

It's 7:17 am and like a busted artery this coffee cup is bleeding all over the place. Spotting this clean white page. Staining this clean blue shirt.
And so many things need cleaned.
Examples of stains: Her face, name, touch, scent, hair, kiss, presence, body.
Permanent marks unaffected by chemical solvents, cleansing detergents and cleaning agents. Stains oblivious to time. A perpetual alteration, a discoloration of memory. Remaining forever.
She will be the unforgettable blemish, a precious blur bounding across blue, a bird of unattainable desire. Her cage resides in the chest of another soul, and he showers her with extravagant ornaments and precious sentiments.
And all I have is my heart.
And so many things need cleaned.

It's 3:30 pm and this apartment is quiet, and somewhere, something is collapsing.
And then, this vision:
I'm a mannequin on the outside looking in and the storefront display windows are filled with people -- real people of flesh, bone and love.
Authentic smiles reveal clean white teeth.
Glowing eyes glisten and shine.
Their hair is combed and their clothes are clean.
And they look so happy, so fulfilled. They are the angels that grace pristine billboards.
And I wish my skin wasn't plastic.
And I wish my hair was real.
And I wish my eyes glistened milky.
And I wish my lips were real.
But I am a mannequin and all my parts are plastic. Fake. Artificial.
Except my heart.
My heart is a bloody muscle, beating. Feeling. Flush with plasma, blood cells and platelets.
But I'm unable to gesticulate. I can't express the pain and the longing that floods my heart because it's surrounded by the ice of synthetic polymer.
But those people look so happy. So fulfilled. They're hugging, laughing, kissing and holding hands.
And I'm plastic.
On the outside.
Looking in.
The vision ends and I'm on my back, in my cold bed.
Alone.
And everything is quiet.
Gazing at a ceiling void of color, I think, I could have stayed there forever.

mc