There Are Times When I’m Alone And Where He Is

There is a skylight over my bed where I can gaze and see planes fly past at night. The blinking of lights where I imagine lovers being taken home. Their red and tired eyes sore for something familiar. Or, maybe, ready for something new. My eyes continue to search as I watch them pass over. Through my other window I can watch the train rumble by carrying frozen souls the distance they need to go. Distances they want to go.

Last night there was a young couple on the train, wrapped up in each other. Two kids, wading their way through, trying not to drown. There are times when that’s really all you can do. You can’t stop the water from rising, but you can swim. There isn’t always an anchor while your boat springs a leak and the pieces float away.

There are so many parts you love, but can live without. You see them wading in the distance grasping only what you need. I don’t know if it means anything, but he is the only thing I cared to hold on to. I let go anyway when the undertow took me and the world fell silent. There is less to be hit by underneath.

I opened my eyes to darkness. Tiny rays of light, shadows of something all consuming, I learned how to hold my breath underwater. My lungs burned while the debris stayed above. There are waves in life that hit us out of nowhere. My limbs felt weightless when I realized I was alone. Finally, I surfaced where I could see dark clouds on one side and a sunrise on the other. Sunrises are typically described as beautiful, but I don’t think it’s enough. I don’t know if there is a word for the moment where you know it’s going to be all right. When the warm flare of colors creep into my soul and I instinctively exhale a breath.

Fireworks aren’t just for special occasions. There are flares left for safety to illuminate the dark caves of your soul. The passionate red is blinding at first, burning quickly, just enough to see what I have to see. Lighting the path on fire, sometimes I don’t need what I’ve left behind. The hieroglyphics etched on my eyelids offer a story only for me.

The story of who I am, the actions I take. And sometimes, stories just end. There are pages I could fill, novels I could write ending up just scattered in the water. The wind takes away my notes, leaving them to be devoured by fish. The eaten up life of what I wanted, needing to accept the moments I have inside. There is safety in who I’ve become. The pictures I have carved into my walls when I close my eyes and planes fly overhead.