The April Fool (AKA Me)

As my eyes draw discreetly to a close,

I feel an empty warmness beside me,

And I can't figure out how to truly explain it to the laymen.

It's not a wistful ghost,

Or even an angel's fluttering breath,

But, rather, an unexplainable touch upon my light blue body.

Much like a cloud that belongs not on the street

But in the midst of a barroom brawl,

I weep as I sense it.

It's your absence that makes me hallucinate so heartily.

I feel you still, yet I know for a hard ass fact you've departed.

I'd know that delicate sensation you call a touch anywhere, even if it is only a figment of my warped imagination.

Your love still lingers

And I can't help but still welcome it with a thrust-open, albeit wounded, heart.

I can still feel your breathing on my neck,

Your peaceful, slumberous gaze as you rest,

Your beauteous body leaned into mine,

Shielding me from the creatures of the night.

And I'm utterly frightened at a possible prospect that stares me down point blank, namely:

What if I am to never experience such a glorious sensation again for as long as I am to breathe deeply?

What if I am to never feel your arm draped around my midsection again?

What if I am to never traipse my fingers over your skin again?

What if I am to never kiss your forehead good night again?

My lips mourn the loss of its equals.

My eyes mourn the loss of theirs and thine.

My ears mourn the loss of your soothing voice,

And my body mourns the loss of your soul intertwining with mine,

Creating a neo-religious experience as we danced.

And my love for you knows it's more than overstaying its welcome,

Bitterly glowing in my chest, catching aflame on my hair, burning me to an absolute crisp,

But where does it belong?

Where can it possibly return to?

It belonged with you,

But now that you've gone,

It is miserably waiting at an angsty bus terminal of sorts

With unpacked, unclaimed baggage that still hangs on your torn and ragged breath, a breath that no longer fills me up with a sense of security.

So as I lie here, isolated underneath frigid covers,

Still haunted by the sleepy spirit of you,

I turn onto my back and gaze at my cracked ceiling in hopes of drifting off to a more relaxed state

And wish that I experience this waking nightmare no longer

So I won't wake up with a tear-soaked pillow in the morning

As I invariably have more times than I can possibly count.

But if your eyes were to gaze upon what I've written here, my love,

Just know that I'm shaking at the thought

Of a day where our better, less bitter halves shall reunite.

And I know that day will come sooner than we think.

I'm still torn to shreds by you, dear,

And I wait anxiously for you to stitch me whole again.

And know, just know, that I'm still very much tormented by

Not having you next to me in this lonely bed,

As my insomnia creeps up to attempt to replace you

(Although it is a poor substitute for such a great journey as you)

And my frazzled existence tries to make sense of a nonsensical situation

And return to sleep, if not peacefully, then decently

So I can face a new day on my own.

--April 1, 2002--