I escape into the bathroom. My back runs along the wall until I meet the floor. Staring straight ahead, all I see is a rich brown cabinet. The lines in the wood are fairly consistent, running in a vertical direction like small claw marks. The tile is cool along my palms. Sometimes, I lay down and invite the chill into my face and back. I leave the shower running, watching fog devour the mirror. I write confessions on the glass and watch them disappear as memories of him reappear.
I smoke in the bathroom; inhale nicotine and exhale worry. Dense clouds prohibit my vision, making the world look how I feel: foggy. The rise and fall of my chest has become irregular since he left. When he was here, he would remind me to stop holding my breath. He would tell me to breathe, holding his breath until our breathing synced; a symphony of ins and outs. He would tap my wrists and the top of my hands to a rhythm only our bodies understood.
I find myself studying my fingers through the smoke, wondering if they remember the rhythm. I try to tap my thighs, but my skin feels like someone else’s.
He messaged me today telling me that he hopes that my “day goes well”. I tell him that it is not. I tell him that his voice sounds different; jumbled and electronic. He asks me why my day is not going well. I tell him it is because his words are starting to sound a lot like “goodbye”. He tells me that he does not understand. I tell him that he never does.
I have glow-in-the-dark stars across my bedrooms ceiling. I scattered a few along each of the four walls in the directions that I toss and turn. It has been four months since I bought them and their glow has dulled.
Ever since I was a kid, I looked to the sky, admiring the stars that scientists say we are related to. The man on the moon, more than a myth, kept me company as an only child with insomnia. I talked to the sky. I asked the stars if they talk like J. M. Barrie wrote in Peter Pan. I still talk to the sky. I ask the stars why they never respond before deciding they are too busy to answer.
It has been four months since I have met him and we are starting to lose our spark.
In June, he went to France. He talked to me all day and night, every day and night, the entire month he was gone. He sent me photos of vintage jazz clubs and local coffee shops, captioning them “i wish you were here, ma fleur”. He is back, but I am starting to wilt.
It is complex how distance and time work; how they do not exist in any sense other than in one’s mind. Someone can be right next to you, yet you feel thousands of miles away. Holding his hand became holding air. I grasped for something tangible and warm, but I could not hold a phantom.
The French say, “Il y a”. It means, “There is”. If you run it together, it is a beautiful name. I named everything he gave me “Ilya”, but there is no value in his things I possess. I find myself taking down the movie tickets from our dates I taped onto my walls and placing them back up in new spots: by my bookshelves, above my bed, next to my records, and in my closet. I rearrange my room during the hours between one to four A.M. They say only the loved and the lonely are awake so early, but I think it is just the restless.
My twin flame and I decided that September first of 2017 was not truly the first, rather September second was the first. The original September first was too full of anger to be a beginning. I cannot start a month with a toxic taste in my mouth. A bitter name on the tip of my tongue. A ghost haunting me disguised as a shadow.
On September second, I woke up, got dressed, and went on a walk. I never go on walks, but I went on one; hot Florida air nearly suffocated me. I screamed at cars until my throat stung and my voice grew rasp. I swung my arms out, let them dangle and mediated on how they felt. They felt light, like I could swing them so hard they would fling off my body. I walked for an hour, putting up and taking down my hair several times; Eating an almond and throwing one to squirrels or birds along the way. I drank water, smoked cigarettes, and called my best friend. I crashed a birthday party at the park.
Red balloons remind me of the silence before a scream in horror movies, like when the victim turns around and meets the monster. Cake reminds me of calories, like the ones I avoided for years when I consumed a diet of air and flushing meals down toilets. Children remind me that time-travel does not exist. It is impossible to return to a time when I did not know you.
A child at the party asked me who I was.
I said I was trying to figure it out.
I had a breakdown in the hours of his absence. I told him I needed someone to talk to and I received silence. He apologized the morning after and I responded with silence.
I was in the passenger seat of his car many times this past summer. I always wore an outfit that would match the intensity of his red car. One time, we were driving and I was looking out the window, one of his hands on the steering wheel and one wrapped around mine, and he told me that if anything were to go wrong, that he hopes at least he’s influenced me enough in a way where I feel more comfortable speaking my mind.
I tell him that he has failed.
He tells me that he does not understand.
I respond with silence.
Featured art: “Pandemonium” by Kim Jackobsson.
bybee.docx 