Days roll by
On these still nights
I restlessly change sides and
I wonder where my sleep
Hides
On these quiet mornings
I slowly stretch away my pain and
I wonder where the time
Has gone
On these long afternoons
I analyze the clock and
I wonder what I will
Have for lunch
On these lonely evenings
I make excuses to stay busy and
I try not to think about
Where and how you are
Metz
I was just working the job
Out and about
Doing my thing
My liaison
Older black gentleman
Honestly, great handshake
Strong, firm, and genuine
Completely unassuming
Great handshake
He spoke with a steady
Gravelly voice
Deep, but not too much so
His personality was
Warm and genuine
With a quiet strength
Just like his handshake
He walked with a slight limp
Body slightly hunched
Probably from years of hard work
On the rails
Working the yard
I bet he never met a man
That didn't instantly like him
Even his goodbye
Was somehow inviting
I’ll never understand women
"What did you notice about me first?"
"My tits or my ass?"
One of the things I most loved about her was the way she would cut deeply to the root of whatever conversation she entered. She did so with ease, and unapologetically.
"Ummm"
I sheepishly stammered...
"Well, to be honest, neither."
I WAS being truthful.
"It was the way your shoulders hunch forward and in as your body slightly crumples over when you laugh. The way when you laugh, HOW you laugh so completely...like you absolutely have to enjoy every last bit of whatever it is that inspires you to laugh, and how you HAVE to make sure you get every last drop of that joy out. It was the sexiest thing I'd ever seen."
She stopped and stared at me. I couldn't tell if she was going to cry, or if I'd been so moved while reliving that moment, that I had actually spoken another language. She never really addressed it.
Two weeks later, I figured it out.
I should have just said her ass.
Latte, please.
Coffee. Black.
I don't know why I ever order it that way. I want it to taste like something.
Something else.
Maybe like I always look in the mirror as though I expect to see myself...as something else.
But it never fails.
Coffee. Black.
Maybe it's because everyone else is there. Judging me. With their god damn eyes. Judging. ME! As though I can't enjoy a little vanilla or chocolate or...
Something else.
Other than god damn coffee. Black.
I'm a man, damn it! Why do I have to have my coffee black? Aren't I entitled to enjoy the drink? Do they HAVE to judge me for ordering some kind of latte or macchiato or fruity flavored coffee?
Not that stupid, seasonal, pumpkin flavored shit. Don't get me wrong. I'm still a man. Right?
But I had to come up with a plan, then it fell into my lap.
I dated a girl once and all she ever drank was coffee. Black. It was heaven. My problems were all solved! SHE could order both coffees and no one would ever judge HER! The world was finally right!
Until she left me. For another man who just happened to drink his coffee. Black.
And here I am in line again...sweating the moment. I don't even really LIKE coffee...
When I was young and full of angst
We are not the things
We over-contemplate
Or what we ate
As we cleaned out plates
There must be so much more to us
Something you said
Made so much sense that it scared me
'A penny for your thoughts'
Well my mind's not so easily bought
Lay down and die is not defense
It's denial
But we do it with a smile on our face
With no style of our own
Easier said than done.
Our eyes meet, lock.
-oh no- I think -I'm not in the mood for this, right now-
"What did you want to be when you grew up?" You ask b
"I don't remember...actually, a cowboy, a fireman, or a paleontologist. " I answer casually.
"Those things seem exciting," you reply, "what happened?"
"I joined the Air Force" I respond "became a metrologist. It seemed to be the one thing I was kind of good at, so I still do it because it pays a decent wage"
You cast a disapproving stare at me. Judgmental, mocking. You look me deep in the eye, I know the next words you mean to cast at me...
"Does it make you happy?"
"I don't know. Kinda? It pays the bills"
"But does it make you happy?"
I knew where you were headed. The same place you always take this conversation in your daily efforts to demoralize me. We both knew the truth. I do my job daily, like an automaton. A ritualistic robot designed to perform a passionless task for the benefit of others. It's what I do.
The worst part was I spent the better part of each day trapped by self doubt. Fearful that I, very actually, WASN'T very good at it, that I was a charlatan at best, and eventually I would be found out and exposed for all to see. That the world would know what I'd only admitted to you in the strictest confidence, yet softly denied to you on a daily basis.
I look you in the eye. "I don't know. Yes? Kind of?"
You recognize the lie for what it is. An opening for you to expose more of my self doubt...my self loathe.
"Do you love me?" The words tumble from your lips, but I see the expectation already running through your mind.
"Yes. Of course I do."
"How do you know?"
You carefully set your trap. You know I'm likely to give you the answer you want to hear, that I'm programmed to give the answers that makes our friends and family comfortable and confident and the answers that prevent the conversation from going where you always fucking insist on taking it. Answers like "not really religious, but more like spiritual" when I've known I was an atheist since childhood, and "not even for a million dollars" when I've been broke enough that I would probably suck a cock for much less...
"I just do" falls from my lips.
"But how much?"
You take a different approach.
"I don't know, a lot?" Not much of an answer, but I tell myself it's the truth.
"How much is a lot? How do you know?" You insist, attempting to cut to what really is the heart of the matter.
"Describe it."
"I can't. I just do."
"Do you?" You ask, impatient for the truth you know I'm hiding as I lie to your face, to myself. "Do you REALLY love me?"
"I don't know."
The crack widens. You remain emotionless and unphased by the revelation. This was an answer you expected.
"You don't know? Either you do or you don't." You make an argument that makes a lot of sense to me. I wanted no part of this, but you trapped me where I couldn't escape; left me no path for retreat.
I look up to meet your steely gaze.
"Do you love me?" You repeat with an air of finality. I can see the expectation in your eyes. I feel your acceptance and resolve as you prepare for the answer you know I'll give.
"I dunno...I guess I...no. I don't think I love you anymore. I don't know how I lost it. I don't know if I ever truly did."
I mean it and I know I mean it. You know I mean it. I only know that, in my current state, I'm not sure I even know HOW to love you. You deserve better, but I don't even know how to tell you that.
"I don't think I love you. I don't think I even know how."
The answer honestly hurts more to say that it does for you to hear. I see it in your eyes. The acceptance. The same look you give every morning before you head out to work. Dull, lifeless eyes. The robotic stroll of an automaton heading out to make others comfortable. To simply "do" things to appear normal. In the light of revelation it appears we have nothing more to say. I know you are more friend than enemy, but most days the line that separates that seems blurred, at best.
We break each other's gaze to look down. It's been a solid 2 minutes. I spit out the creamy paste and rinse it down the drain. Clean the toothbrush off and place it gently in the cup. Look up at you one final time before I turn off the bathroom light. I stare deeply into your eyes. Dull, lifeless eyes. The robotic gaze of an automaton. It might have been an act born of indifference, but I lament the specks of toothpaste on the glass that lies between us as I feebly wipe at it with a washcloth.
And then I put on my shoes and head off to work. It's what I do.
Hindsight
Damn it! I'm so clever!
But several hours later
Removed from all the passion
As I tumble conversations in my head
I stammered out the letters
Poorly executed, argued
Deferred to your pregnant pauses
Even with your faulty logic
I walked in so self assured
But your tactics were so flawless
So controlling, well constructed
Stream of consciousness a skill
As you set your trap to kill me
Even though my heart convinced me
I was right
I walked away defeated
Wondering why I conceded
Was my conviction poorly scripted?
Had my failing senses drifted?
Was I really right, instead?
And so reflecting I considered
That your gift was misdirection
And my clumsy efforts served
No better end
Until I polished out the words I never said