he isn't over it yet. he can't let it go. the thoughts don't cease... when he sees her, sometimes. it hurts him; those times when he thinks he's strong. he realizes he's not... and that he needs her. fuck, sometimes that even pisses him off... but every night he comes home to her... and every morning he kisses her forehead & tells her he loves her. he walks out the door. its there but sometimes he cannot see it.
he tries.
those mornings when the dew is settling... he feels it but no longer sees it... it only passes him by. silently, it follows its instictual route, to earth or sky, as he peddles by, hypnotized.
he prefers the window seat to study the clouds. he still imagines their soft comfort as he lays his mind to rest upon them... and he forgets for a time. he imagines the tiny people of the cities. he sees their tiny cars drive upon their worm-hole highways. he wishes it were him with the one he loves... traveling toward the unknown... complete... content in the heat and the soft light as it fades.
but now.
at home, he feels resentment when she looks away. she feels neglected; so he thinks. she does not say. he can see it... simple & pure... if they could just stop caring. stop trying.
often, they sit on the beat-up leather couch & watch old movies, always his pick, late at night before bed. she never stays awake to see an ending. he is unable to doze... and long after a film ends, he sits in the silence. he looks around his home in the low light. his dog lay at his feet... cat, asleep in his lap... its comfortable...
he longs for the synesthetic reality... for the color to return to her words.
