1. |
Terminal B
04:02
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Pull the shades. Make it midnight in the middle of the day. From the other side of the Atlantic, I replay the same scene. It’s all too familiar to me. I’m staring blankly at a screen, a television telling me exactly when and where I’m going to leave. I distract myself with the numbers in the glow. Standing at the gate with nothing really meaningful to say. Forced conversations, unmet expectations. We stay to put off the way that we feel when we’re alone. So you keep pacing and wait for it. I keep checking the time. There’s no telling difference the distance might make, but we’re trying to fake it and say we’re alright. In the same place that we said hello, at the base of the stairs here in Terminal B. I say, “I’m still not quite ready to go.” But know I’m more ready than ever to leave. So don’t apologize to me. I know you have to leave. So don’t apologize to me for anything. So don’t apologize to me. I know sometimes you have to leave.
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2. |
On Leaving
04:00
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There’s boxes in a cold room. I’m standing by the stairs. I search for symmetry and reason to explain the coming season that I’m not quite sure is there. I weave myself into a narrative so I can try and understand. These rooms contain sections and pieces that I’m struggling to believe might now be coming to an end. I see you standing in the front room, your eyes alive with hopes and plans. Taking new measurements and leaving out the context we believed built the foundation where we stand. Relieved, but terrified of leaving here. This crowded room is all that’s left of celebrations, life, and grieving. All significance and meaning I assume you will forget. For the first time in my life I wish that I was younger. That I could go and restore my now fleeting sense of wonder. That I could still be an optimist, as if all the best parts of life weren’t behind me. I counted down the months and the day came. It’s hard to think just how we let it drift away. And with love, we will sing to the love we will leave. Now there are boxes in a truck bed. I’ll leave my key under the mat. There’s nothing left to do but go, and know that we will not be back.
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3. |
Short Stories
03:31
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Just say the word, and I’ll make myself anything. If this feeling is fleeting, there is no sense in being afraid. An escapist at best, always looking for the next way to leave. Though there’s no joy here at all, we compete. There is no poetry in grieving. There is nothing beautiful in loss. Can we explain the hopeless way we keep retreating to the same place? Our need to belong. Another misguided attempt at connection. A regular reminder to embrace the imperfections I’ve grown to learn to let go. But there’s another side about which we don’t speak. There are pieces of ourselves that we are terrified that anyone might see. Details that would lead us to believe that we are not quite always the people we expect ourselves to be. She says, “I think it’s funny the things we choose to share with anybody.” The people we declare we are. It feels like we’re barely ourselves.
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4. |
Dependence
03:48
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If I don’t say this now, is there a chance no one ever will? Empty orange bottles on your window sill. They can take away the pain, but they can’t change the way you feel. If I could turn back time, I’d pick up the phone to let you know on that night, you weren’t alone. If you had made it to the morning, would you have been a different man? Could you have caught yourself from falling again? We’re left with fragments and pieces of a life incomplete, as we try to at least understand. How were you so decisive before you decided to start it all over again? Over time, what was a habit had slowly developed to become a need. Was this a byproduct of an increase in dose? Was it a conscious decision to leave? I didn’t say a thing. I saw the signs, but I couldn’t find the words say. I noticed you weren’t quite the same. I know there’s nothing I can change with questions it’s too late to ask. Were you still running from those images stuck in your head? Or were you chasing your ghosts, out after something instead? I’m standing, staring at stone. Two dates, a name, and a dash. Swearing that I should have known, with questions it’s too late to ask.
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5. |
Old Habits
01:59
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It was easy to say it’s my last with a cigarette lit, but in an hour I’ll be digging for a pack. Making old promises again. Soon we’ll all turn grey, routines we’ve made confine us all. I’m sure if we wake up from our daze, we’ll find we’re lost. As I look ahead, is this all we can hope to expect in the end? I thought it’d be different than a room and a bed. Emotionless, a shell of who I knew you’d always been. Is this really it?
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6. |
Resolve
05:50
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I’m not here out of love, but am here out of obligation. Mascara stains on my shirt from tears that I don’t deserve. It’s clear that we’re not worth saving. So don’t stay here for show, I already know. You say you’re breaking, but you don’t. You’re calm, collected, and composed. My hands were shaking, now they won’t. Can’t even fake it, so I know it’s probably time for me to go. We made conversations out of words I never thought I’d have to say. And though we built this home on hope and grace, we disassembled what we’ve made. Instead we chose to watch it all disintegrate. Now there are bags packed by the door beside these empty dresser drawers. I had expected to feel more, but there is nothing left. We’re nothing to restore. I’m not here out of love.
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7. |
Spring
01:31
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It seems I’ve found myself here again, in this empty second bedroom we haven’t seen since we were kids. A vase of roses that are dead, but filled with hope and represent a life of love, a love of life, beneath the glass down to their stems since they were sent. And what was once green has now grown to grey. And what was once red has been over time replaced with the memory of a time and a place when she could see and feel the love in the expressions on his face. And she was certain in forever, and that together they would make this life the dream that they’d create at night while they were wide awake. And I can see it in her eyes now, as she looks down at the vase. Yeah, I can see it on her face. She is ready. She’s waiting for death, like a change of address. As if it was the next natural step, a journey they had kept. That it was something to be welcomed instead of grieved, feared, or wept. And she said with strength I someday hope to find, “It’s been a wonderful life.”
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