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.

Made With Concentrate

Where I am right now is inside the Salt Lake City Library.

Tiny beads of raindrops form on the window to my left, while a young girl spins 'round and 'round in a swivel chair to my right. 

The sound the rain makes on the aluminum roof above, it reminds me of tens of thousands of soldiers marching. 

How I feel right now is vulnerable but optimistic. 

I have just changed my work schedule to having Thursdays and Fridays off. This is so I can go visit Ms. River every other week, on every other Thursday.
How I feel right now is naked. My phone is turned off and haven't been able to speak with Ms. River in almost 36 hours.
Every other minute, like the rain my eyes continue to fall but on my cell phone, watching for the message and waiting for the vibration to let me know my phone is back on.
The little girl in the swivel chair, her mother tells her to stop, tells the girl she might get sick if she continues on.
The only way I've been able to communicate with Ms. River is via E-mail. The response between the two of us has been few and far in between.
A cell phone plays a ringing sound and a young man who calls himself Nick answers the phone.
Nick has forgotten his password and wants the entire library to know how unsatisfied he is with a certain company's customer service.
My fingers pause over my keyboard as I try to concentrate on my next sentence.
Nick, apparently his mother's maiden name is Wiley. "Like the coyote!" He yells.
A blanket of "Shush's" fill the air around me.
There is a middle aged overweight male, resembling an Orson Wells(circa 1960's) look. He breathes heavily, looks at me and says, "You think he knows this is a library?"
The rain continues to march on the roof above me while Nick yells into his phone, "You say you want to know my zip code?"
What's  happening right now is the same thing that  happens when your in bed, late at night trying to sleep. The smallest of sounds sometimes, can be the loudest annoyance.
Right now Nick's voice, it sounds like a roller coaster on a fucking chalkboard.
Right now Nick tells everyone that his last log in date was sometime in "Juneish."  
Trying to concentrate right now, is just as hard as tying to concentrate on sleep while Ms. River runs through my mind. For the past few nights, instead of counting sheep, I count beautiful memories and the days it's been since I've seen her..
The time on my cell phone tells me right now, this very second, Ms. River is in class, probably running on no sleep and a pumpkin spice latte.
Nick tells his phone and everyone in the room that he'll "have to go get that." Whatever "that" is.
I close my eyes for a second, try to concentrate and push through but I can't.
My thoughts are watered down into a concentrate I can no longer concentrate on.
I close up my laptop, stand up and head out the door.
"Thank you!" Nick says into his phone.
No, thank you Nick, thank you.

When Vocals Fold.

    This is when it starts to happen.
When I get quiet and my eyes start to water.
When my throat tries to resonate any sort of vibration from my larynx up through my lips.
This is what happens when I can no longer speak.
This is what I like to call, "The Depressing Pause."
The Department of Health and Human Services describes this as, when vocal folds no longer produce a vibration, causing nothing but air to slowly fall out of my open mouth.
After a moment of silence, I make a grunting noise, bringing to life the muscles that have recently failed me.
"Sorry..." I say
"About what?" River asks.
"Sorry for getting so Emo, for a moment." I say.
Where I am is laying down in my bedroom, talking to Ms. River.
Where I am is getting out of my "Good times bus" after taking a drive down memory lane, doing my best to walk a straight line and speak a straight word.
The funny thing about all of this is, you never know when that unexpected teardrop is about to form from the corner of your eye.
Three minutes ago, all I was doing was asking about a simple raspberry plant.
A raspberry plant that was purchased from a simple Low's Home and Garden with a simple twenty dollar bill.
Now I lay here and rub my Adams Apple, feeling like an extra from a Charlie Chaplin film.
"It's okay." Ms. River says. "I understand."
I take a moment and breathe, letting go a thick cloud of nostalgia, letting it pass through my vocal folds and into the air.
Three minutes ago it was a simple raspberry plant, reminding me of simple sunshine and generous offerings that make all the difference.
"What where you thinking about?" Ms. River asks
"Raspberries", I say "I was thinking about raspberries."

On Saturday's, the Lowe's Home and Garden in Henderson is open from 10 AM to 8 PM.
The digital clock on my phone tells me it's a quarter to one when we pull in the parking lot.
Ms. River and Ms. River's  Mother,-or "moms" as we both call her, have decided to stop and take a look at few seasonal plants and flowers and more importantly, a raspberry plant.
Ms. River and I had been fighting for what felt like several weeks.
After a few days of silence, sometimes the only thing to do is to argue.
When you go so long without noise, sometimes the best thing to do is just turn on the power, and turn up the volume.
Inside the open air garden, Ms. River and moms wheel a shopping cart around the corner of grass seed and insecticides.
I hand the cashier a twenty dollar bill and he hands me back $1.72 in change.
Afterwards, I turn around and walk back towards garden hoses and lawn furnishings.
What I have in my hand is a raspberry plant.
A simple plant with nothing but a short stem, sprouting from a gallon of soil, inside of a black plastic bucket.
River and moms stop in front of Jasmine flowers and whisper something back and forth in Russian.
"Rita," I say, "Here". I extend both my arms and hand over the plastic bucket with the sprouting stem.
"What's this for?" Moms asks.
"It's for you." I say, and place my arm around moms, giving her a smile and a hug.
Out of the corner of my eye, Ms. River's look, it tells me she's happy but still wants to be mad at me.
I move over to Ms. River and place my arm around her waist.
She tells me, "I'm happy but I still want to be mad you." She says.
"Sorry." I say. "Would you prefer if I were a dick?" I ask.
This is the first time I see a genuine smile in over a week.

So this is when it happens.
This is when tears form from the corner of my eye and my vocal folds, fold.
Something simple I know.
I miss times like these. Times when something so simple can make a world of difference.
I ask Ms. River about the raspberry plant, how it looks now.
"You should see it." She says. "It's crazy. It's grown from the ground up to the top of the patio."
I take a deep breath and attempt to say something.
Anything.
"Are you okay?" River asks.

Where I am right now is inside a Lowe's Home and Garden.
Watching a smile I haven't seen for weeks.
Watching my love continue to grow from the ground up to a patio.
From my larynx to my lips.