Astronome

Where I am right now is outside, laying on my back, looking up at the stars.
The concrete below is whispering cold shivers through my plain grey hoodie.
Britta lies next to me and points up towards the sky with her index finger.
"This is Orion's Clitoris." Britta says.
A cold stream of steam softly falls out of her mouth.
Britta traces her index finger from the right, and then to the left and says, "Over here..." She says " This is Athena."
I take a pull off my Marlboro cigarette and pass it to Britta.
"This, over here..." Britta traces her index finger up, right, down, left, creating a square with her index finger. "...and this is the Louis Vutton purse her husband bought her on their third anniversary."
I laugh and pull my hood tight over my head, exhale a breath of cold steam into the air and take the cigraette out of Britta's hand.
"Louis Vutton?" I ask. "Are you sure that's not a Gucci, or a Coach knockoff."
"Fuck you! Just bear with me." Britta says.
How we got here, the two of us, laying on a cold cement patio, outside of Mike's Tavern is irrelevant. What is relevant, is the index finger, and the Jimmy Chew dress shoes of Cassiopeia.
Britta tilts her head to her right and tells me not to Bogart the cigarette.
"Sorry Judy Blume." I say.
Britta snaps her fingers and says, "Give it!"
I hand the cigarette over and tell Britta, " I think that's the big dipper."
"Nope." Britta says, "It's definitely the Armani suit pants from Orion's Belt." She says, "Look, you can even see the helm stitch."




Sometimes we take things for granted.
The people we Love.
The people who love us back.
Friends.
Family.
The Border Collie we go on runs with.
Sometimes we wake up in our 1000 count linens and squint at the sunlight coming through the small window to the left. We put on our glass slippers that seem to fit just right before bedtime, but cramp our toes and squeeze our heel before breakfast.
We walk out of the bedroom, take a right hand turn into a hallway, into a small bathroom with two hanging towels and twenty different body soaps.
The water feels warm as it runs over your naked body, the towel feels soft as it dries your naked remorse.
Sometimes, as people we take things for granted.
The tiny bottles of shampoo on the bathtub ledge.
We forget about the sofa in the living room, the flat screen television on the wall in front.
We forget about breakfast in bed, the breakfast that has three eggs and thick toast and thick bacon.
We forget about kisses and goodbyes before work.
Sometimes we take things for granted.
The people we Love.
The people who used to love us back.



Where I am right now is laying on my back, looking up at the stars.
Britta moves her left hand into my right hand and tells me "Orion was a big pussy." Britta says, "Don't even ask why."
I look over at Britta, and up at the stars, at Orion, at his belt and his pussy personality.
I remove my hand from Britta and ask her if she's ever been in love with someone.
Britta takes a long drag from my cigarette and tells me she has. "I get it." She says. "You still love her." She says "I get it."
I remove the Marlboro cigarette from Britta's left hand and tell her, "Something like that."

Happy Birthday

Today is your birthday.
Happy Birthday
I still love you.
I'm sorry last year I didn't get you anything. In fact, last year I didn't even show up at all, but you still loved me. You still told me you wanted to be with me, even though I wasn't there, or didn't get you anything, last year on your birthday.
Today I sent you a text message. Saying, "Happy Birthday Kid." I didn't expect you to text back. I was surprised when five minutes later my phone said, "Thanks old man." Then I made a joke, telling you, "I'll have you know I'm only 47." Then you wrote back, "LOF", and then corrected yourself typing, "LOL" Then I didn't send anything back. I probably never will unless you text me. With that said, you probably never will either. We probably won't ever communicate again, because I fucked up, and you no longer love me anymore. You're with someone else. You love someone else. I can't say that I blame you.

Today is your birthday.
Happy Birthday Ms. River.
I still love you.

My heart is a lonely hunter

Getting your fingers to move over the keyboard is the hardest part.
The digital clock next to me, tells me it's 1:00 AM.
How I feel right now is frustrated and unproductive.
I can't write.
I sit in front a borrowed desktop computer screen and can't write.
My screenplay has become a fucking standstill, and so have many of my other projects.
Nothing is moving. Even the 23 cats surrounding me are asleep.

INT: INSIDE HOME OFFICE-NIGHT

Mike sits in font of a computer, listening to Washed Out's Within and Without album. A half empty glass of lemonade sits on the desk to his left. The sound of dogs barking outside is heard, while the moonlight slips through the cracks of his blinds.

FADE OUT:

THE END

Even writing about something is nothing I guess.
This what happens when the world around you moves, while you sit still.
I close my eyes and picture myself as a montage in a television series. It's one of those montages that you see where everything surrounds the main character in sped up motion, while the main character sits still.
The sun rises
The sun sets.
The sun does this over and over again and our main character sits still, while the world showers, and eats, and moves rubber tires over cracked pavement, our main character sits still and does nothing.
Everything else moves and breathes. Our main character, he sits there and waits for his fingers to move.
This is what happens when you loose the person you love. This is what happens when the person you love looses you and finds someone else.

What I'm having trouble with, the things that still pulls at my dermis and crawls under my skin, is simple. It's the simple fact that I'm still in love with Ms. River.
This is the simple fact that keeps me up past 1 AM.
The past two months have been one cliche, layered on top of cliche on top of cliche. The past two months have been one walking advertisement. Billboard after billboard, reminding me of fuck up after fuck up, forgiveness after being forgave for. I'm reminded that I was the one doing all the fucking up, and she was the one doing all the forgiving. I was always expecting her to take me back, and she was expecting me to change. One person can only keep meeting expectations so many times before the expectations become extraordinary.

The digital clock on my screen tells me it's a quarter to two. Right now my fingers are a lonely hunter, pecking and picking on plastic square keys, with hopes that someday, Ms. River will notice me again.
I tell myself that's why I do this. I know she can't possibly respond to my E-mails, phone calls or text messages. The only thing I can hope to have happen is that the one thing that brought us together, will somehow bring us together again.

This time

Twenty cats.
That's how many the house I live in now has.
If you were to ask me this question yesterday, my answer would be 17.
Twenty cats with twenty variations, and as Amy puts it, "If you stay around long enough, you'll see every one of them has their own personality."
I've been here almost a month now, and while I haven't quite been able to separate all 20, It is getting easier to know some of their names.
The album I'm listening to right now, is called "Washed out." If you've ever seen the IFC series, "Portlandia," It's the opening theme song. That's what I've read at least. I haven't seen it.
Sitting in a cardboard box in the corner is Pepper. As I move closer to take a look, Pepper does her best to cover and protect her litter with her two front paws.
This is my first time seeing a litter of kittens. This is my first time seeing a litter of anything really. If I didn't know any better, you know, with a quick look, I'd say they look more like tiny mice then baby kittens. I reach down to try and pick one up, but am greeted with a hiss from a protective mother.
Standing over Pepper, and looking down over four tiny kittens, I'm reminded of the simple fact that I fucking hate cats, right? At least that's what I've told myself my entire young adult life. It used to be an anecdote over Thanksgiving dinners or New Year's eve parties. Now I stand here fixated, fascinated really. I can't seem to take my eyes off of this mother who's just gave birth to four tiny creatures, breathing, alive.

Miss River sends me a text message, wanting to know why I've been such a fucking liar. My phone lights up and her text reads, "Why are you such a lying asshole?"
The frost from the cold December air covers my android phone. 
"I don't know." I write back. 
Where I am right now is walking around Cedar City, Utah because I have nothing do to. I walk past Southern Utah University and take a left at a stop light, checking my phone for messages every 1-2 minutes. 
During the next three blocks, my phone turns bright, while message after message lights across my screen. 
"I don't want you." 
"I don't need you." 
"I'm seeing someone." 
Right now my heart is down to my knees and my knees are up to my chest, and every message I read, every message from this woman I love so much, cripples my body and moves me towards the sidewalk. 
"I'm sorry." I write.
"I love you." I write.
A minute or so later River sends me a message back.
"I don't love you." She says. 
Where I am right now is walking up the cold, hard sidewalk, walking back home, towards a place where memories of River are warm and soft. 
A minute goes by and there's no message from River. The electronic sign from the Bank of Utah tells me it's 17 degrees outside. How I feel is numb. The string from the north wind no longer burns my face. 
All around me is nothing but frozen breath and passing cars and Christmas lights. 
I reach my front steps and my phone vibrates. 
"Heading to the shower, than off to the boyfriends house." She writes. 
This is the last things she's ever said to me since. 

Dear Ms. River

You probably won't read this. You probably don't want to see anything with my name on it. In fact, you probably don't want to see my name. Ever again.

Matt's gone, Ms. River. He passed away on Monday. I can only assume it was a drug overdose.
I know you didn't like him much. While Matty and I had our conflicts at times, he was still a friend to me.
It was Matt, that I was at the hospital with when I called you, the same day we talked about our feelings for each other, you remember? I was sitting in the hospital lobby and we talked for hours, maybe four or five.
I can't  help but imagine where you're at right now. With your boyfriend, or maybe with Celina, playing pool and drinking wine.
Today I closed my eyes and thought about coming home to you. Pulling my laptop bag from off my shoulder and going outside to smoke cigarettes, and talk to you about how I'm feeling. Some sick part of me wants to believe that it would be a reality someday, instead of a dream. Some part of me would like to believe that we still live in a world where you love me, and I love you. A world where we hold each others hands and make meatballs, or salmon cured in salt and lemon. A world where I was a good guy and didn't fuck things up.
Right now, my hands tremble and shake over the top of my keyboard. Even typing something you'll probably never read, it's still fucking hard. A part of me still sits, in front of my laptop and checks gmail, and facebook, waiting for a message that will never come.
When two people love each other, they put hands over hearts, taking each others pulse until both hearts stop beating.
I still live in a world where I still love you. I love you and I know you'll never love me back, not the way that I still love you. Not like you used to.