Every day I made the birds chirp Godspeed. Every day he would scowl, because he knew I didn’t mean it. He knew I never would. But we continued religiously with our system of lies, because I am an actress, and he is an actor, and we are always someone e l s e .

//

Every night I painted the word Godspeed in the stars for him. Every night he tossed and turned, never catching a wink of sleep, because even though I didn’t mean it, he knew it still held some truth. He didn’t, however, know what that truth was, nor how to find it. I did. But if I told, he might leave and stop the show. And, oh, would that be a tragedy, because we are performers, and the show m u s t go on.

//

Every evening I lit a match, and the smoke spelled Godspeed for him. Every evening he would squint, complain that it was far too dark. But I know he wasn’t really trying, I know he was purposefully blinding himself, because he already knew what the smoke would whisper to him. I would make it brighter, I would, but we are carnival folk, and people tell us to keep to the s h a d o w s , please.

//

We are many things, the two of us.

I think mainly we are story characters, the people of children’s tales. Or, perhaps, fantasy creatures misplaced in a science fiction novel written by a man dead to everyone but himself. Or we could even be the one-sided superheros in Saturday morning cartoons, here for nothing but entertainment. Though, maybe, we are simply two words in a poem, stuck side by side to express an unattainable love.

Well, whatever we are, it most certainly isn’t r e a l .

//

Because real things have substance, a purpose, a distinct reason of being. Neither of us knows what ours is. Maybe mine is to act like a broken record and always wish him Godspeed, and his is to puzzle over w h y I am broken.

//

I don't even know why I am broken, only that I am.

I'm like a clock (though not a broken one, isn't that funny?),

t

i
c
k

t i c k


t i c k i n g

and always saying the same thing - Godspeed to you - like a clock always shows the time.

But a clock never loses itself, never drowns within the stormy waters ripping apart it's very being. A clock never lies - not really, it at least always thinks it's right - to save itself, never becomes so desperate to be noticed that it screams until it's hoarse.

So I suppose I'm not like a clock at all, am I?

//

I must be like something, though. Because there aren't enough things in this Universe for everything to be startlingly different from each other. Every object resembles another in a sorta-kinda way. And maybe if I find my sorta-kinda thing, I'll find my reason of being, too.

//

After a bit of thought, I've come to the conclusion that I am most certainly like a child with a stutter. I am a child because I cannot begin to comprehend the monstrosities his journey will bring him, and I beg him to go on, please, oh please. I am with a stutter because I seem to be unable to say what I want, yet I cannot make myself say something different.

He is something I will not understand. He is something that clashes. He must be a businessman who has forgotten the small joys in life. He must be unhappy, or unwell, I think. And so, because we cannot get along, our conversations persist to be dry and tasteless.

//

Me: "Godspeed you."

Him: "You don't mean it."

Me: "I don't. I really don't."

Him: "I know."

//

And since I am a child with a stutter and he is a businessman become numb to the glee found in everything uneventful, we yell too often and thus fill with a great amarulence towards nothing in particular. An afficticious yearning, if you will, to acheive something greater than repeating a monotonous spat too many times to remember.

//

But that fight is the only living thing between the two of us, so we continue with it, over and over, until we exhaust our bodies and minds and they

c o l
l

a p s e

in on themselves in an austerulous display of exlineal cooperation.

//

Sometimes I grow tired of the fight, of the life, and wish for him only to leave on this unidentifiable journey and be gone for months. But other times I suppose I'll miss him, and plead for him to stay. As of now, I'm not sure which I'd like, because if he goes, God knows if he'll be back.

//

God knows.

I wonder if God really knows. And I wonder just how much God knows, because if God knows about us, then God knows about them, and if God knows about them, I wonder how he'll handle all of it. If he handles it well, our conversations will continue the same. If not, the flame keeping us awake will be blown out and we will surely drift to sleep.

//

Perhaps, after we fall asleep, we will dream. About what, though, is a rather good question. I think maybe I would dream about ships and screams and sacrifices, and he would dream about gold. Not pirate gold or Europa's gold, but gold gold. The kind you find in a heart, or through the eyes of a child.

P e u t - e t r e .

//

Sometimes I feel as though the only solution to the resonating ache is to remove my head and heart and let myself float in a g o n y .

//

I toy around with that idea a lot. I've once thought about asking him to accompany me, but that was before I realized death is a comforting lonliness and a task inevitably carried out by oneself. One can dress it up all they like, die however gruesome they may desire, but they are always alone. No one can change that, not even him,

whoever he may be.

//

It's funny how I don't even really know who he is. I know (I think I do, at least. I could be wrong.) what he is like, so perhaps that will help me figure out who he is himself. Then again, I don't know who I am, either. Maybe I should find me before I find him. It's a game of hide and seek, I believe.

//

I believe.

I believe too many unbelievable things, it's making me senile. I think too many ridiculous thoughts, they're making me start to mumble. I play too many childish games, they're making me begin to dream. I say too many hurtful words, it's forcing everyone to leave. I hold onto too many seperate enigmas, I'm starting to lose track. I cry too many unshed tears, they're turning my body into a cage. I love too many things, it's breaking my mask and stretching me too thin.

I am too much of me,

and not enough human.

//

It takes a genius to be able to spout the nonsense I do and weave it into a graviloquence fit to society's liking.
Yes,one requires a compendium of words to do that.

//

He has finally left.

I refuse to adorn his new absence with feelings and song words.

He has left and will not be returning.

It's as plain as the dreams we shared.

//

I think when he left he took my heart. Not in the sense lovers' do, but in the way that there is an aching in my chest--a pulsing yearning to repeat the conversation. An instinct to go through the motions once more.

//

But he is gone. So, alas, there is only me to hold a one-sided conversation.

//

I tore my fingernails off

and dripped blood

on the frozen

hand of

the enigma

we knew

as false

hope

.

//

And now I am nothing but poisoned breath. The dead space that hangs too heavily on the air.

//

And so it shall remain as so. In the way things are, they are the way they shall be.

-fin-