Pansy's Lament
It is in moments such as these, when I am caught on the edge of sleep and dreams that I think of you. I wonder how you are sleeping; softly and soundly, or lying in a cold sweat, haunted by thoughts of me too.
When you turn in your bed to cast your eyes upon your wife, does she remind you of me? Dark hair and alabaster skin. She is beautiful, lips red and soft and pouted in sleep, no doubt.
She sleeps well because she is secure in her love for you, and thoughts of your love for her. Is she wrong to be so happy? Will you tell her the truth and shatter her perfect dreams, her perfect sleep?
No. You won't.
She sings a song of happiness with her smile. It lights up her face and her eyes tell all that she owns you. When you walk around your world with her hand on your arm, do you imagine it is mine? Slim and small, without your ring on the finger.
No. You don't.
You only remember me in this room: bare-skinned and filmed in a thin veil of sweat. My arms around you and your hands on me, our skin seamless. Here you don't have to say nice things. You don't have to say anything. Except my name.
You whisper it over and over again, reminding me that when you are here I am not lost in the vast space between reverie and reality. But will you stay here with me and taste the sweet thrill of make believe?
No. You won't.
You haunt me with your eyes, all at once the clear grey of melting ice and broken shards of burnt obsidian. I see them still when my lids are closed and sleep beckons to me, but they hold me on the cusp of wakefulness.
At night when the rain pours loud and fast around you, do you seek comfort in its melody? Do you cry when the thunder crashes and your bed is cold, your heart hollow?
No. You don't.
I often wonder what you would do or say if I found another and married him. I picture myself, an image of steely resolve telling you my news and you responding in words of desperation, in words of promise. But you do not make promises because you know you will not keep them.
And in reality I know that you would not beg me to leave him. You would not say a thing, but I know that beneath your shiny mask there would be darkness: anger, and disdain. Because despite what I would tell you, you know that I love you and you think you own me for it.
We both know that though I torture myself with thoughts of you, I will never be happy. You hold me on a string because you can. If it comes a time for you to let me go, to let me be miserable with someone else, will you?
No. You won't.
I want to call you selfish and scream how much I hate you. But I cannot. Your flaws are my flaws, and our flaws are endless. Ultimately I know the right thing would have been to walk away when you chose her. But I did not do it then, and I know I cannot now. And that is exactly how you want it.
Because you are selfish, and that, I suppose is part of the problem. You are this way because I let you be; I let you hurt me and break me so that I exist only in my shattered form. Irreparable. Because only you can fix this. Only you can heal me, and break me, and heal me again.
And there are times when I wish I had the courage to ask you to heal me and leave me, so that perhaps it won't hurt so much to see you leave my room again. Just one final clean break and I would wallow in pity eternally. But I think it would better that way; to know you won't return rather than to feed on the frenzied hope that when you do it might be permanent. It never is.
But I would never ask that of you. I never ask anything of you, except in these moments of anguished lament, when my questions echo loud and clear. And I feel like the world is thrumming with the weight of my questions, my needy requests. Do you hear them too?
No. You don't.
Not because you can't; because you won't. You choose not to think about the repercussions of what we do, because you do not think you have to. You think you can keep coming here and haunting my steps, my thoughts. So that all I know are your arms around me, and my mouth yearning for yours.
And you are right; because you can. You can ruin my life and ruin your own and I will let you. I will stay in this room of rumpled sheets and dying sunlight and await your return. Because it is all I know, and all I breathe: this relentless, urgent need.
And when you do arrive, as you always do; my heart stops, my vision frays, and the pain is held at bay.
Because when I look at you and breathe you in, I want to ask you: do you love me? But I never do, I already know the answer.
Yes. You do.