Sorrow creeping over the wood
As cold creeps across the hearth
You shall be known unto others
As you are known to yourself
"Are you going to eat the rest of that chocolate?"
"There are several different ways I could answer your question."
A starless night. An empty bed. The liquor cabinet was used as firewood in late February. The bottles are now lined up against the wall. Each day they become a little closer to empty. Each day he wonders if he should leave this place.
"I once knew a man who was something of a shaman."
"I once knew a doll I swore could talk."
The glass was empty. The glass is now full. It will not be for long. It has places to go. It has a thirst to quench. Another log on the fire. The wood pile grows smaller. The room gets colder.
"There was a time when I dared to believe."
"There was a time when I dared to pour myself another drink."
He feels it coil around his arm. He feels it wrap itself around his waist. It rises up across his chest. It presses tightly against his ribs. He lets it pour him another drink. There is no excuse to avoid the ecstasy of this excess.
"And there you were where I knew you could never be."
"And yet there was no other place I could be."
Three ice cubes clang against each other in his glass. Such sweet music they make. The music of empty. The music of death. He lets it coil a little more tightly. He smiles just a little less. He fills the glass again.
"I saw your hair again today. It was at the back of the bus."
"And where were you when I reached my stop?"
He heard her talk to angels. At least that was what she seemed to be doing. He gets another log for the fire. There is nothing left to burn. Just these last six logs. The seventh burned up about an hour ago. He took them off the back of someone else's truck.
"All I have is one page left to write."
"And then it will never be complete."
There was one thing left to burn. If it could have kept him warm he would have already thrown it in. The fire would have consumed it too quickly. Just as the cold can consume a man. Just as a child can consume a womb. There was only one page left to write.
"And then it will begin again."
"There is never one last page."
He pours another glass. He turns to look in the direction where last she stood. There is a window where the door had been. This had been a very long time ago. This is not the same house. This is not the same dream.
"If you kissed me the world would explode."
"And maybe not even that."