Where I am right now is in bed. A bed with a slender arm draped over my chest while I type. Miss River's arm.
How I feel right now is empty. Like the world has been sucked out of my insides. From my stomach to my chest it's been sucked out and there isn't anything in the world that can stuff it back in.
What I feel is pain.
What I feel is Grief.
What I feel is the need to crawl into a dark corner and breathe and pretend that everything's going to be okay, and I don't know if it will.
Why I feel this way is simple. It's simple because I fucked up. Plain and simple I fucked up.
If you're still reading this, what you may feel in the next sentence is irony.
In less than six hours earlier, stopped at a stop light, Miss River tells me she doesn't want to be with me anymore.
Like I said, I fucked up. Now instead of crawling into a dark corner, pretending everything's going to be okay, I find myself missing her, missing River and wishing I could take back everything I never said, and say it.
The
one thing Natasha knows about me, the thing she always says at always
the right time, I do a fantastic fucking job at deflecting questions
I don't want to answer.
Under
the pale, grey moonlight of the stale Nevada sky, Natasha wants to
know how I feel about love.
I
place a Parliament Light cigarette to my lips and light the end with
a orange bic disposable lighter.
"Love?"
I ask "I don't know." I say "That's a good question."
I
take a smooth and steady drag from my cigarette and exhale and fill
the dry Nevada desert with Carcinogens and Carbon Monoxide and tell
Natasha that "Love can mean many things."
I
deflect
"Are
we talking about the love one has for a Brother, or a Sister, or a
Mother or a Father."
I
deflect
"Are
we talking about the kind of love one has for a best friend?"
I
deflect
"Are
we talking about the kind of love one has for a movie? A video game?
A car?"
Natasha
touches flame to cigarette and tells me to just answer the question.
I
deflect
I
ask Natasha, "What about you?"
"What
about me?" She asks
Where
we are now is outside. The air we breathe is cold, especially for
September, especially for Las Vegas. I curl my right palm around my
left arm and my left palm around my right arm and let my cigarette
dangle from the corner of my mouth.
"Love,"
I say "What are your thoughts about it?"
I
deflect
Where
I am right now is sitting under the pale and grey moonlight, smoking
a cigarette and filling my lungs full of reservations and uneasiness
for the truth. The truth that lies behind Natasha and her question.
Where I am right now is sitting on a cold, aluminum patio chair and
I'm lost in her Beautiful Ocean Blue Eyes and I hide myself from how
I really feel. About love.
Natasha
lifts her head towards the pale moon and the dark Nevada sky and she
tells me, "It depends on the person." She says
Natasha
places her cigarette back to her lips and inhales and exhales and
says, "For me, love is simple." She flicks the tip of her
cigarette on the edge of an ashtray and says, "It's all about
understanding and accepting someone for who they are and having
someone understand and accept you for who you are."
Where
I am right now is on an outdoor patio of the Las Vegas Recovery
Center, smoking cigarettes and loosing myself in beautiful Ocean Blue
Eyes. Thinking of the simple clarity, about a mutual and
understanding love. Thinking of how simplistic it isn't to answer
such a simple question.
The
funny thing about love, is the simple fact that it's both Tangible
and Intangible. It's something you never touch but always feel. It's
a smoke, full of carcinogens and carbon monoxide that fills your
lungs full of butterflies and warm vulnerabilities.
It's
the unexpected cool September air, carrying romance through thousands
of fragile blood vessels, straight to our fragile and hopeful hearts.
The
funny thing about love is that everyone tries so hard to find it,
even when it's two feet away.
Where
I am right now is outside. Wishing I had something to say. Hoping I
had something to offer. Thinking I have nothing to give. I press the
last of my cigarette into the ashtray in front of me and tell Natasha
I think she might be on to something. That she might be on to this
thing called love.
Natasha
lets a trail of smoke trickle from her lips and says, "Thank
You."
I
grab another cigarette and pull it from the flip top box and for the
next ten minutes Natasha and I stare at the pale moon above the calm
Nevada desert. We inhale old memories and exhale old lovers and look
at the bright stars as they poke through the black blanket of night.
Natasha's
phone vibrates twice and reminds her that she's late.
She
says goodbye and walks away while a trail of smoke separates into the
cold September air.
The
funny thing about love is that it always leaves an answer after an
answer is no longer needed. The funny thing about love is that it
comes and goes and inhales and exhales and lives and breathes and
vanishes, into the cold September night, under the grey, pale
moonlight of the Nevada desert. The funny thing about love is that it
never leaves. It's simple and accepting and understanding and it
never leaves but it always says goodbye.
The
funny thing about love is, love.
