Every day that passes leaves me farther down the road. I imagined that by not dying, life would be easier. Instead I find myself wondering if I should have chosen differently. The road is hot and dry. Baked sun bounced off the tarmac burns the underside of my eyelids. Dry heat swells my tongue, leaving me wordless.
For a time, Death was a friend I looked forward to visiting with. We spent a great many years together. It was a difficult relationship with lots of that c'mere, c'mere, go'way, go'way. The closer we got, the stronger the pull apart it seemed. So much time spent divvying up the record albums, over and over.
Books on the shelf went into boxes. The assumption was that we would be moving. Forward. Onward. Instead we moved apart. The tiller that steered the ship broke. Then the mast snapped in two. Over five years now, adrift.
Day after day, day after day,We stuck, nor breath nor motion;As idle as a painted shipUpon a painted ocean.Water, water, every where,And all the boards did shrink;Water, water, every where,Nor any drop to drink.
It is hard now, to look upon those boxes, sealed with tape and not to wonder if the pages still have words. Have the pictures faded too? Are the road maps stained with oil or with rat shit?
We have grown apart. You and I. In years past we stood back to back, cudgels in hand, ready to fight off all comers. Now we sit rooms apart, silent but for the solitary sounds within our heads. The music doesn't cross between us as it once did. Even the bread grows stale. Only shadows are shared, overlapping but never becoming one.
Each passing day leaves me wondering if I have enough shoe leather for another journey. My lungs are filled with water. My eyes are rheumy too. All this water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink.
Weeks without rain have left me cracked inside, dust falling softly into dark places. My wooden joints ache with stiffness even in repose. Relax they said. I was better off walking. At least then my legs could carry this burden.
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