Lie With Me

For a long time, I tried to write down words about his disappearance. I found a lot. I even classified them in alphabetical order, if you want to know: “abandonment,” “absence,” “death,” “departure,” “dissolution,” “erasure,” “escape,” “extinction,” “flight,” “loss,” “retreat,” “vanishing,” “withdrawal,”—the other ones I forgot.

The rain continues to pound against the roof of the shed. We are alone in the world. I’ve never enjoyed the rain so much.

His hair continues to drip water, the wet strands sticking to his forehead. His beauty is devastating. He kneels down on the mattress. I do the same.

nothing to bang against, where you search for a light, some small glimmer, something to hang on to and guide you

I discover that absence has a consistency, like the dark water of a river, like oil, some kind of sticky dirty liquid that you can struggle and perhaps drown in.

The source of this missing and longing can be found in this first desertion, this imbecilic burning love.

I discover the pain of waiting, because there is this refusal to admit defeat, to believe that a future where it happens again is possible.

It’s as if he’s negating everything that transpired between us, one body against the other, as if the image has been completely erased.

He acts as if nothing happened, or as if everything should be forgotten, buried. It’s even worse than being forgotten, it’s a denial.

This coldness mortifies me. It confirms all my worst fears.