Is it more painful when it’s in anticipation or confrontation? Waiting to discover or to come to terms.
It is an hour car ride to see you. My heart flutters, a confused lepidopteron. You once induced the sensation, but now it is simply the once. Now versus once. The changes.
Once I waited for the day I would rest my chin upon your tuxedoed shoulder, a first dance in a white dress. When you and I would become one. Once.
You take forever, always. To respond, to speak, to understand. To open the door. I press the doorbell again, which surely irritates you.
Forever and always. Eyes locked, limbs interlocked, the door locked, intercourse. The man I thought you would become smiles at me from a parallel future. He is fading so gradually, his smile waning as you come to the door.
You come to the door.
And there is a downpour of pain in the confrontation. You are pain, you are heartache and stomachache rolled into one massive need of an Advil. Here. This moment. Pinpointed – I know what they mean when they say “the beginning of the end.” It’s literal, you know.
The Bible. The Odyssey. Our Odyssey.
Literary? Not literal.
This is a face I don’t recognize. I thought I know all your masks, but you have reserved this one for a special occasion. I figured the end would deem the masquerade over. You are the masquerade: the show, the entertainment, the beauty, the falsehood. Take your final bow, here at the door I wish you would but it must have its formalities this end.
Let me go.
Please? Please me. One last time. The first time? This is utterly undignified. The end never happens quite the way you want it to. There is no happy ending because happy never ends. Fairytales are permanent bookshelf fixtures, fixing each new generation with freshly formed false hopes. I blabber, you glower. I blubber, you look out the window. You perform another monologue. Your best, perhaps. Certainly better than the first. Most thoroughly rehearsed. I respond to the cue, your cue, my line is said. I pray that my annunciation is satisfactory, oh sweet masquerade.
The mask never falters. Not a hint of emotion. Perhaps this is you, the real you, the magician revealing his greatest trick. I am giving the performance of our relationship. I sniffle at all the right places, shed the precise number of tears, reminisce as required. You wait. For me to finish, for me to leave, for me to be gone. You wait, prepared to leap into your next act. If this were a soap opera, my character would certainly be killed in a hundred different ways this episode. You want to ensure that next season, I won’t enter as my uncle’s former lover’s half-sister’s evil twin. Your mask is a guaranteed non-entrance, you hope.
She will get the point. Finally. She will stay away. Finally. She will move on finally. I can live my life. Finally.
The thoughts run through your eyes.
Hate is a strong word.
In this moment I hate you. I hate myself. I hate us. Yet, these impassioned hates will evaporate over the course of the end. But my loathing for this mask will not. Take it off take it off be real for once in your life please just be honest be open stop with the multi-faceted artificial bullshit. It is your specialty.
Words. They are varied, emotional and harsh. Unfortunately, I can’t locate the false ones. Yours are concise and calculated. Unusual. It scares me and worse, hurts me. Last words, the last end. A backward glance at the mask as I wave good-bye, ending on a false positive note. Yeah! Definitely! For sure! Not.
You return to living.
I return to waiting.
To leave hallways with your apparition. I hear you laughing far too much.
To stop flinching when I hear your voice. To stop wanting to hear your voice. To stop hating your voice.
To love: again or for the first time, I’m still unsure. I’m hoping for the latter because the former certainly bore some semblance to the notorious pulsating nauseating whatever it was, but if that was it… That’s it. That’s it? That’s tragic.
You’re not it. I realize that now. That parallel universe you was it. But you, with that final mask on a rainy day in May – it pains me when I realize that was you. Organic you. True you. You at your most emotional was your least. And I get the reverberations, you asshole. That fucking masquerade left me with so many uncertainties that I could write a…
I never got closur. So I wait.
Created: Jul 19, 2010Document Media