Big Dump

Spooks
(My apologies. This one is the scrappy state.)
We are the messy studio with Thom’s mic stand collapsed on the floor, partly covered by my shirt. We are the small delicate clicks of the doors – done with much haste and with much care, fingers twisting the knob with experienced deftness. We are the half-finished glasses and smirks, and a just touch and a light buzz over our heads when we look at each other across the table and speak with our eyes.

(Thom bending his knees and placing them under his chin. Thom slouching down and stretching. Thom sitting up excitedly. )

Sometimes I feel strangely detached. I’m an observer. When he’s asleep on the pillow, I get up and tiptoe to the hallway, down the stairs and to the living room, where the wine bottle is in the floor (I remember that it was me who knocked it down with an elbow once he crawled over the table to take my face in his hands and press his open lips to mine), the glasses with a bit of the red liquid are still there, and the pencil and a small sheet of paper with his writings are resting peacefully, free of his manic hand. I step forward and feel something prickling my foot, which turns out to be a button from his shirt when I kneel and look at it.

(His moist breath and laugh are close to my ear and I finger the buttons on his shirt absently, enjoying the moment. I want it languid, I want it mellow, I want to split him into basic tastes, smells, sounds, and feelings. I want to ravish him, pin him down like an insect and study him, conquer him, and own him completely.)

I realize that I can hear his breathing in my head and a chill runs down my spine. He’s not anywhere close and I can still feel the rhythm of his chest heaving. It’s scary to realize it. It’s almost like when I continue the melody in my mind when I place my headphones on his head and wait for him to nod or cringe so that I could go back to it without a gap.

(I’m pulling my hair and rubbing my face and hug myself awkwardly while thinking of something to replace him. I drink coffee and gulp down the sleeping pills and play my guitar – but it’s all useless, because every time an image of him enters my mind, worrying old blisters. Then he comes back, his clothes smelling foreign and his eyes wild with excitement and I finger his neck, completely and utterly mad, confused and consumed.)

We are the things that surround us and that are left behind once we exit the room. Thom’s necklace ripped off his neck because it was on my way, lying abandoned behind the sofa. My shoes kicked against the wall. His doodles on the paper (I catch “He”, and “Lips”, and “Skin”, and “J.” here and there once I skim my eyes over it), my guitar (I beg myself and him to give me some time to rest it gently against the chair).