Month: May 2008

All I really want is just him. And that’s about it. That’s about it. And the more I write and the more I think, the worst it gets and the worst it seems.

Of course I miss him. What else do I think about nowadays? Not missing him? Oh, you give me too much credit. I miss him like hell. I want to stop thinking about him. But it’s ridiculously difficult.

Truth to tell, he had no idea where he was going. There was something dangerously alluring to a city at night, with amber lights, silent streets and swish of cars on the highway. The mannequins, decked in spring fashion, were his company.

“So, uh,” he started, plucking a grape from the empty branches sitting in the bowl, “how was your day?”
“Marvelous, yours?” She replied without looking up, her fingers settled gently on the ivory keys and with delicacy and slowness she started playing, as if she were testing the water. The music escaped from the piano, a prisoner set free, echoing across the hall, the sunlit pooled like an angel’s hair on the marble floor.
“A little less than marvelous, I have to say,” he ate another grape, “somewhere between tragic and depressing.”
“Miserable?”
He weighed the word in his mind and after some deliberation said, “Yeah,” he nodded to himself, “yeah, miserable.”
“I’m terribly sorry for your misfortune.” He watched her fingers fluttered between keys.
“Sarcasm noted,” he rested one elbow on the piano and looked at her with a playful curiosity and slight grimace of pain, “it really shouldn’t surprise you how my days are, the way you treat me.”
“I’m not surprised, Mr. Frost,” she replied, a string of notes flowed from the instrument, she paused, fingers on the keys and looked up at him for the first time, “I’m delighted.” And she pounded down on her next chord.
“Lillith, you’re too pretty to be so terrible.” He got up and strolled over to the window. A plump, red bird landed on a branch, its beady eyes turning to meet his.
“Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”
The bird jerked forward and spread its wings, soaring towards the sun and for a brief moment, Frost was reminded of Icarus. The branch wavered. He turned and looked at her, the way her chocolate curls rested on her shoulders, in the crook of her collarbone, he returned to the piano, but this time put his arms around her neck. The music continued.
“But this will,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ears.
“Try harder, Mr. Frost.” She replied, matching his decibel.
His hands found their way to her breasts, her nipples were stiffening from his mere touch. He massaged them gently, a small moan escaping from her lips as she missed note. His lips found their way to her neck, small nips and kisses made her quiver, leading to her lips. He gently tipped her head towards his. She strained to key playing, as he kissed her, the music stopped.
She spun around on her bench to face him, a hand in his golden hair,  his busy hand moved further down her body, down her stomach, towards her legs.
“Impatient, aren’t we?” She mumbled, as he broke the kiss and moves to one of her astute nipples. He grunted in response, one hand up her skirt already, he gently palmed her through her underwear, feeling her wetness.
“You’re one to talk,” he grinned, looking up at her.

William Frost died on a Monday.
He slammed his index finger in car door that morning and spent the next ten minutes, as he crossed the company parking lot in hurried steps, furiously shaking his hand, biting his lower lip to ease the pain, and mentally cursing his own stupidity.
He stepped into the elevator following the flow of bodies and found himself jammed between a short, plump woman and a man with horn rimed glasses and amazingly high cheekbones. There was a burning sensation between the first and second knuckle of his finger, his car door, he assumed. The lift rose steadily, silently through the building, ascending thirty some odd floors in a matter of seconds, shoulders and briefcases nudged past him as the silver doors slid open with a hum.
Alone he was in the elevator after the exodus of people with another woman whom he had never met before and certainly would have liked to meet again.
William Frost was not a talkative man, but when the occasion called, he tried very hard.
“Hi.”
At first she did not notice him, dismissing the murmured and barely audible greeting.
He was about to try again, but decided against it seeing how his first attempt failed. Long, brown hair that curled slightly resting in the crook of her back, a glossy sheen of blood red across her lips, emerald green eyes staring, unblinking, at the floor numbers as they were illuminated, the curve of her perfectly formed breasts under her snow white blouse-
“My name is William!” He almost yelled. She whipped around, her hair flying, green eyes outlined black, wide in surprise.
“Hi,” she started. Her voice bubbled like champagne and wispy cigarette smoke in a dingy parlor, sweetness with a bitter edge, a dirty martini, something aged and jaded in the way her irises settled on him and bore right through him, like a ruthless predator as the cork popped and her lips formed his name, “William.”
A deer in headlights, he stopped, the elevator stopped, a sharp ring announcing their arrival. His mouth felt dry as it hung half open, words waiting to be said, to roll off the tip of his tongue suddenly caught again in the cage of his teeth.
Her stilettos clicked as she stepped off, giving him a playful, teasing look over her shoulder, “Goodbye, William.” The particular smoothness of her hips etched itself in his mind as she walked away. He stepped forward, hand reaching, then the elevator doors closed, sandwiching his hand, his injured finger, between two sheets of metal.
He spent ten more minutes in pain, mindlessly daydreaming of her. He didn’t even have her name.
According to the police report, three hours after his miraculous chance encounter in the elevator, William Frost, age twenty-nine, pitched himself out of his fifty-fourth floor office window.

PHYSICS LAB

I love him when I don’t see because I think I miss. I think I love sometimes and sometimes I’m not so sure and oh god, this movie, her little monologue out front. I’m dying in pain because I love and I doubt, I doubt that he loves, I don’t even think he gives a damn, or half as much as I do about him and I’m scared to ask and all that nice noise and I’m going tod ie and die and die and eventually I’ll tell him but I’m not sure when because I don’t want him to know that’s just so strange and I think I’ll end this sentence now.

I love him and I think I do. I think I do. I know I do, or not. I need, or maybe just want, do I need him? Can I say that out loud or will I die after I admit that little unimportant factoid that no one, not even myself, ever, ever, ever needs to know? What the hell am I supposed to do?!

Emo people make it hard to write lovesick poetry. And yes, I do write lovesick poetry because every once in a while I think of you, and then you aren’t there anymore, and that’s when the emotional discontent, as I’d like to call it, kicks in.

I hate everything, grades, life, him, you, that, and like, two pennies and a television.

He really should’ve been working. But sometimes he just couldn’t concentrate on his graphs and data and files and figures and he ends up on the internet. The little pixilated mouse cursor hovering in the middle of his shiny liquid crystal display drifted closer and closer to a forbidden link. He clicked. His nineteen-inch monitor sprang to life. He was safe and secure behind his door. And he finds what he needs.

Snow falls on the city silently, a brazenly cold angel of death resting in the dull, gray curves of metal and concrete. In the morning, he wakes to a soft, mute world and stares placidly out his window as he breath fogs over circular patches of glass. His quick and sudden handiwork, all of it on a whim, his silent mistress, waiting for him to find, below him the white coils around blocks like a serpent.

His fingers are cold despite the gloves. His mind is numb despite the aspirin. His breath materializes in the frigid air and he imagines his soul escaping him. Park bench with chipping green paint and rusting brown nails, faintly blinking stars and a cup of cold coffee from some corner deli for company, a fizzing, broken streetlight arching overhead sheds a halo of light on his small epicenter of the world. There’s a strange taste on his palate, and for a moment he tries to eat air.