Dream Date

Echoes traced the ceiling as my eyes, agitated subtly by dust, stalked the circling motion of a propeller. Dazing.

From above, these doubting whispers proceeded with masking the constant blinking of my alarm’s red tainted numbers against the room, my consciousness seemed unresponsive.

From beyond, a love language once owned & now dreamt of entirely but in lesser form, invades the textures of this orange peeled walled room I always knew as the heart, courtesy of science; but now as my purgatory, courtesy of grief. I’m welcomed home, forever. A scent, reminiscent of her demeanor and existence made my night a sheep less, that is sleepless one. That’s a concern for the closest ones in my present timing, the attending topic in Danny’s life. “The boy’s gone sower.” I’m reminded of this instantly, a regular family gossip.

A scent, reminiscent of Neosporin, made this morning’s wake a nursing one. Concerned of my white sheets staining I woke my alarm to the following. My wounds are bleeding again I acknowledged. I investigated my arm’s bandages. This shit stinks I spoke to self. Echoes echoed. Echoes of a past touch, a past feeling once found only within my priorities for life now mocked me. A bird chirps, I’m dreading my wake while awoken. Trees indeed reflect a dance, a dance only my silhouette now stages. I hate mornings. I’m inverted. Everything’s blue.

Painted echoes of a past touch skewers the fragments of these walls, my heart. It’s still bloodied, as I toss and turn I’m reminded she’s still of it. It’s still bloodied, it’s still in vein but the rhythm of my eyelids matches a song so distilling. My heart is still bloodied. It’s still ingrained in me, but often in these times it plays a song so masculine proof that, moments, though constant like the beat of my eyes batting, makes this now neglected instrument a ton less human like.

Like a pillow’s soaked contents my comfort speaks with unrest. My pillow’s soaked fabrics melt to my wonders, it’s been 172 hours since my last walk. The soles of my soul is quick-sanding, my weight carries on sluggishly. It’s been 366 missed calls since we last talked. I have to use the bathroom. A leap in faith crawled me out of my non existence as I unraveled the comforter of my coffin. Sitting at the edge of defeat, I noticed my anxiety, “Hey best friend.” By my feet laid bottles of relief never remembered. Accents of tobacco wraps never engulfed by a weed jaw and its holdings. The frame of my edge reminded my needing to call IKEA for a newer bedpost. “The side effects of my fucks given.” I smirked, devilishly. Denial overshadowed my quick sanding steps as I plundered the medicine cabinet for it’s cabinet members. Abilify, Oxy, Zoloft, this & that, blah etc.

1 pop, 2 popped, 3 pops, then four.

At my 5th element I noticed the rumblings of the stairs up to my roommate’s room. Ronie. Many mornings I found him slumped by his monkey. His drooling would leave history of his struggles in finding his inbreeding bedded coffin the night prior to. Not today I thought, fuck his problems I’m beneath mine. He’ll be alright or not, it’s heroin at his choosing and demise. I often marveled at our similarities. Food for pain. The toilet’s flush seemed distant as I stared at my daily challenge, the world and all her alluring triggers I’ve adopted & subconsciously filtered myself through & the struggles I’ve found comfort in. Golden retrievers to chihuahuas, those annoying fuckers, to joggers, young and old; partners and bikers. All these flashes of happiness galloping through the aged Windex shrieks of my bathroom window; all heading towards a trail we once embraced daily, you and I, us and we, as one. Already I’m exhausted. You haunt me.

A leap into waste flaunts my being. I’m embracing a moment of what’s become of my domain. Pools of unwanted grace drowns the room; my grave. The bed’s broken post; my headstone and all it’s supporting attributes, carpet and desk included, brighten as I adjust my eyes, defensively of my window’s blinds. It’s mid morning and the son, yes, The Son has shown his face. It’s alway sunny past 11 here. Always.

Amazing grace isn’t so always amazing here though, I thought.

The color noir fits respectfully the outfit I’m only fit to go out with. Black high waisted slacks, high waters, purposefully accenting my socks’ whiteness; resulting in an offsetting poise to my slim cut tee, black of course, and a pair of war torn low cut vans. Purgatory shuts her doors behind me with a never ending laugh of trailing doubts and despair, the soundtrack of my aura. I’m in a world of misconception as my Lyft signals me in. “Hi Danny?”

Replied, “Sure.”

His name is Sam, a mid aged overly caffeinated result of a reformed capitalist with rejected notions of the status quo. A left winger, white and mighty in all his convictions thus talkative and very unforgiving in his gayness. I respect that, but not enough to entertain his entitlement, first world problems seem so mediocre for an African raised child as myself.

Since annoyed, clearly he’s abrasive even if he wasn’t. Abruptly I answered all his fishing inquiries with an under-toned punchline of wanted distance, of wanting not being his bothering subject, shut up Sam. This dance is all too familiar, the interest in the uninterested. Life’s seesaw I figured. He’s sporting a fedora. What gives. As I tuned out Sam’s impulses with the familiarities of the road ahead, 26th street, then a left on peachtree, it occurred to me that my awaited duties of being a reality tv producer in Atlanta now screamed unfulfillment. Pure emptiness. Emptiness about as empty as my sobered thoughts on an empty stomach. Traffic at this point played a sickening distraction, a game of desire. I forgot my breakfast I felt. How could I? It was my favorite point of the day, our days. Suddenly her car seemed a topseller, surrounding, enveloping almost every road and lane we traveled, Sam and I. Every few blocks Sam acquired so did she. You haunt me.

Rumblings of a production office smeared with the sense of urgency, paper files, zoom calls, demands, watercooler gossip, location follow ups and budget proposals & entitled assistants; all the noise, every aspect of this musical I now found myself drenched in, all seemed distant. “Knock.” Pops into my office is my supervisor. A kind urbanite, chipped from class. She noticed and projected my down like agenda. Morgan always cared about me genuinely. Minutes later, I found my tears reflected through the thickness of a red, sensual like taste in discovery, a journey of you will. A tainted dark red metaphor of my life, unreluctant like the concepts of love pop culture distorted me through, engulfed in its passion, I was captivated by it. I felt the textures of aged palms that pressured the spoils of the fruits birthing this experience all through my salivation. I tasted a history of real love. I felt my jaws tingling, my aftertaste existing for once. The seconds between my brain signals, the game, the smell of intuition; it all came back to me through this glass. This drink, because for just a moment, the joy of being valued by and from values displayed out of authenticity dominated it’s ingredients, with care it reminded me of the efforts appreciated through a genuine realization of who I’ve always been to myself. The similarities pondered me; a date for and with me, because of self. The care for a better me, wanting more for myself, a better more genuine you, unbiased by excess every and anything, all with love. looking up I toasted.

“Thanks for the Merlot.”

“Salut.” Said she.

Then followed, “Consider this our first date.” I laughed a laugh I hadn’t laughed in months.

“Salut.” I replied.