Open Doors and Empty Drawers

This is PART FOUR in my series: dis-PLACE-ME-nt: a poetic vision of place, self, and interdependence.

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I'm not sure you know me even though we share a bed and I know intimately the mole on your ass that has a long hair that should be plucked. It's not your fault. I've never told you about the wandering eyes that lead wandering hands. I just smile and flirt. That's what I say. At least that is what I say to you. I just want our love as measured by the volume of your snoring. It's the only sound that eases my mind and puts me to sleep. I love sleep. It's dreams I don't care for; their hope is false.

You are waking now, and I am creepily staring. You hate waking up to me hovering over your head. I like counting your gray hairs and freckles. 358. Just a week shy of a year. It's symbolic I tell myself, and you are looking annoyed. You don't want my roving hand, so I turn my eyes and find somewhere else to rove. There. It is on the computer screen I should have closed. It's on your computer. I shouldn't have used it, but it was there last night open and beckoning after you fell asleep. He's still staring back at me paused just before completion. I never get to finish.

I've wanted to tell you for so long, and each time I start I yield. I've wanted that feeling of connectedness that others talk about in relation to their spouses. We touch. We never connect. I miss the feeling of being with someone. Why aren't you with me?

You lay there breathing heavily, eyes blinking sleepily, hand slamming snooze. I'm about to tell you that there is a virtual other, that he comforts and warms me with his electric impulses. I can feel his resistance in the keyboard, and that is so much more real than the depression of your body in this bed. It's about to be over. We are about to become you and me again.

But I am terrified. I don't want you to know me. I am safer behind a screen and blinking cursor. I am stronger not next to you.

There you are:next to me. I can't do it this way. I cannot. I cannot break your heart and shatter your illusion of me. Or I cannot do it while we share this bed.

I rise. You turn over on your side annoyed at my fidgitiness. I do this ever morning. Except today is different. Today, I leave.

Your computer is in front of me, and he is still paused. I press play and instantly he cums. He knows me and sees me for who I am: misery and hopeless dreams. He knows what comes next. It happens every time: he door opens and he walks away. That's how everything ends.

I rewind two minutes and pause. There is a not in my hand. It is for you. It is the only way I know how to show you who I really am.

You are finally awake and out of bed. The back door hangs open. It is cold and rainy and dreary. You notice a hot pink post-it on your computer screen and empty drawers.

It reads, "Press play." And all you can do is pause.

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