Did I say I’m sorry?

drive-in-theater
“Sometimes I can’t remember nothing
Sometimes it shadows everything
Some Sundays it’s as loud as thunder
In the morning when the telephone rings
Clearer days in some distant forecast
Dark days in this present past
In the blur of some phantom widescreen
I’ll let go of what I never had”

– Matthew Ryan –

Some days, like today. It feels just getting through is enough.Just letting the hours go past without too much scarring or pain. Just hold your breath man. Just stay perfectly still. They can only see you if you move. And for safe measure make no sound, you can’t ever tell what you may say and if they’re listening anyway.

The ghosts are loud today. The chains. And rattling of doors I keep shut tight and piled against with anything I can push in front. Just stay out now you hear? I am not letting you in. They whisper out there. In the long and lonely hall “Come on boy, you’ve got to open up sometime, just you wait and see.” and I think maybe they laugh. A terrible death rattle sound. It’s the music of shame and sorrow.

See I remember standing in the middle that little street. Watching the big black car drive away. She turned to wave goodbye but I looked away so she couldn’t see me cry. And the days I spent walking, afraid to go home. Because it was so empty. So lonely. I never slept in that bed again. How could I, she was still there a faint scent on the pillow. Tea, some secret potion and raindrops.

And if I turn my eyes inside again, I can see a the sidewalk as I walked around the block just one more time. Just a few more minutes before I went home. Such a scared boy. Just a child. But carrying the weight of a thousand years. And when I got home he’d be there, angry and cruel. The explosion, the bruises and the hurting. Shame, a kid who knew shame before he ever knew love. Crawling away to hide. A corner that the light never quite reaches. Piles of books and a record player. And holding my breath. Waiting to see if that was all. No more tonight okay?

So many boxes and so many rooms. So often I have gone alone. The sadness and ache of letting go once again. The subsiding pain and the scarring, thick tissue growing where once there was flesh. Always knowing there will come again another wound, another fight or another heartache. Just healing enough to go back into it again and again. Like an old prize-fighter. Paying for his rent and booze with blood and skin.

Days like these I seem to lose my faith.

Well tomorrow comes. It always does. Good or bad. And the cluttered places inside me will still be there. Waiting. More patient than a stalking cat and with sharper teeth than a dragon.

Be well, be love.

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