Rejoice, rejoice God's ears are stitches.
Rejoice, His eyes are big X's.
Rejoice, His arms are burning witches.
Rejoice, His hands perform hexes.Rejoice despite the fact this world will hurt you.
Rejoice despite the fact this world will kill you.
Rejoice despite the fact this world will tear you to shreds.
Rejoice because you're trying your best.
I shouldn't have been disappointed. She was beautiful with her hands, and her legs. And her teeth too. But the problem was that he died three years ago today so although. Although I am watching her mouth form a very palpable smile, I am also seeing another's smile. A small one, because he almost never gave full out smiles. Not the nice puffed out kinds that she's got. Just small ones. Barely-there-only-I-can-see ones.
"Did you hear me, love?" She says. I snap back. I smile. Wrap my index finger around her pinky finger. She's warm, like something else I'm familiar with.
"Sorry, what was that?"
/
Alright. You're to stop thinking of him right this second. This very instant. But no. That was stupid that was never going to work. So I am thinking again. I can't exactly remember the color of his eyes anymore. They would change, I'm certain. Was it green? A bright green? Or grey? I haven't the slightest. I'm losing my mind. But I remember his body, certainly. All creative little angles and knives as elbows. The way he used to move his insect fingers hurts to remember. Did he think of me in those last seconds before he shut his eyes? I'd have thought of him, unintentionally. He killed himself. I wonder how long he'd planned it. They say it was because his plan unraveled and he was no longer looked upon as a god. But I know better. I know that he was the truest thing one can imagine. More true than a cuppa in the morning or an orgasm at night. I know an honest man when I see one. I may not have been as smart as him, but I know an honest man. And in those last few seconds, he lied to me. There's a difference. A difference in him. He could read everyone but I could read him, whether he believed so or not. See, I said I would stop thinking about him. But I can't. I've tried for the past three years and I can't. I've been preoccupied, given myself distractions. But not really living how I want to. It's a life I would have begged for before him. Before I met him and he showed me something else. He showed me how to breathe much too quickly again. I wasn't bored anymore. Before him. Before Sherlock.
Mary is wonderful, she is the most wonderful woman I have ever encountered. She's good for me, she's healthy for me. She even understands. She knows I still miss him some days. Sure, she doesn't know how I miss him. In what way I miss him. Not even I know that. But she's easy with me. She's listened to me mention his name a thousand times over, it's like she enjoys hearing of him. Hearing about the whimsical stems in your brain taking to flight somehow, showing everyone and showing me how much you could really do. You loved to impress. In every way. Your dreamlike face and body, your dreamlike movements and gestures, all of it impressed me. It impresses Mary too. I'm talking about him again, though today she seems to know. She knows what day it is.
"John, I'm just sorry I never got to meet him."
"Me too," I say, and she smiles at me. "I love you," I tell her, because she isn't sick of me, she never got sick of me. She strokes my hair when I laugh so hard I cry and she kisses my cheekbones when I can't think, she kisses my navel when I'm sweating so hard it's like there's only fire in my skull. I do love her. So I tell her, because I never got to tell you.
"I love you too," she says. "Let's go out tonight."
"Okay."
/
I always want to be alone but I'm also afraid when I'm alone. When Mary isn't around I try to go out. I try to go to the shops and look around, look normal, look happy, look like I'm not about to die of this piss filled head. This empty shit that follows me around. It's some desire I can't fulfill, never will. Won't ever know how. So when I'm alone, when I'm alone I go into my bedroom. This new bedroom. This bed you've never sat on. You've never seen it. You'd hate it.
But I go in here when I'm alone. And I pull out the middle drawer. I used to have a lock on it, but Mary found it anyway. I told her I wanted it because it held sentiment. Okay, she says.
Funny, how smooth it is. I could follow you, you know. I think about it all the time. Is it sad that I do? Pathetic? I'm sure it is, quite certain actually. I just want to feel your insect fingers touch something of mine. I think about that all the time too. I'm sick. I'm weak.
I'm standing in my bedroom, about to pull the trigger. I swear to God I'm going to do it. But I turn my head for the slightest moment and there you are. And I am so…so flustered. So confused I drop the loaded warmth smothering my temple. You whisper my name in a sort of delicate crushed way. I can't even say your name. I can't move. But you do. You slip through the doorframe and into my body. You're gripping my back so hard it hurts. But only a little. I choke a bit, I can't help it. And then I've fallen into your own sharp knife frame and I'm not even getting cut. I claw at you. At your tailbone, at your elbows, at your ribs. I'm almost biting your collarbone instinctively. I finally say your name.
"Sherlock."
It's barely there, but you hear it.
I'm crying, a bit. I should be embarrassed, but at this point what is there to be embarrassed about? I was about to off myself anyway. And to think, how close of a call it was.
You stroke my hair, crush me into you, you're warm, that's funny. I always thought you'd be so cold. You pull away for a moment. There they are, the color of your eyes that I had forgotten. They're green. That's good to know. You put an insect finger under my chin, force me to stare at you. How I've wanted to. You smile. You breathe heavily and then it hitches, it catches and it sounds like you're going to cry. No, no, darling don't cry.
You bend down, down to my level. Your solid, not a ghost not a demon not a spirit. Just here. Mouth to mouth. I can't breathe. I am going to crush your neck with my fingers I'm clutching onto it so hard. The vein in your neck, I can feel it. My other hand is scrambling to try to find something to hold onto. It hurts that my body is so confused. Your hand moves down to me. It feels so wonderful. Don't stop touching me. You break away, look at me again, force me to look at you again. I sputter it out like I couldn't ever help it anyway. It was always you, stupid.
"I love you."
But, nothing could ever be quite that perfect, could it?