A Broken Crow

he is always, first and foremost, a voyeur. a surveyor of human behavior.
even as a lover, his words can be harsh and critical. his keen eye.
he holds up the shrewd and twisted mirror of the misanthrope.
he is a beautiful and tragic waste, too intelligent to be smart, too ignorant to be stupid. he sees through life like a series of glass panes that he can put his fist through.

(and in the end, he'll take only one prisoner. only one, and it will be a mistake.)

In the early spring, when the sun's fingers scrape across the ground, you will be able to hear him walk outside and mock the birds for singing.

it was perfect even then, you know.
there was a week where everything between us was different, but we bantered like nothing had changed. the language of repetition. of habit. the mundane, even.
everyday i was pulled to you like a magnet.
the force of the sun.
i had never chewed my nails, but that spring i bit them down until i tasted blood.
and there was cheap wine. bad talk. all those movies we never wanted to watch.
there was you and there was me.
(plus something else, huge and intangible. a taste in the air like oranges. bees humming around our heads. cigarette smoke that stung my heavily made-up eyes.)
i could feel you like a freight train.
my palms would sweat and i would wonder if you could smell my shampoo on your shoulder long after i had left.

it was a five hour drive through the rain to get to you. the sky slipped down around the car like a heavy grey blanket.
packed in next to cellophane crinkling old women who talk about their bad knees and their daughters' wedding costs and where are you going today, dear. to see my boyfriend. isn't that nice. isn't that nice.
the smell of ancient make-up. overripe bananas. hairspray and stale cigarette smoke.

i ran through the darkened hallways of the hospital like i was trying to stop something terrible from happening.

and if i didn't know better, i would say you didn't know me.
it's the drugs they have you on.
you are not youself.

i slept on a cot pulled into your room.
the blankets all smell like other people. like bodies.
the woman down the hall is obviously suffering from some delusional episode. she is screaming again. no. lori. no. help. lori. lori. help. no.
i listened to her and to you and to the hum of your mechanical attachments and i wondered if i've ever had a nightmare worse than this.

but i couldn't get anyone to listen.
i couldn't help you.
i couldn't loosen that knot in your brow.

you looked at me fiercely. "it's not home without you" i said.

this is too hard.
who is being aggressive with nurses and doctors? who is bringing you popsicles? who is watching mythbusters with you?

i don't want it to be this way anymore.

i miss you most at night.
my hand pushes across the bed into the empty space where your body should be.
i dreamt last night that i was chasing smoke. i'd reach up to grab it out of the air and the force from my hand would only cause it to dissapate.

it was good to hear your voice. i let it fill my head like a heavy glass of wine.
narcotics again? specialists and tests and cultures. they'll figure something out.

and send you home to me.

i feel okay today. yesterday was so much like the other bad days, the anger follows me around like a dog. it should arrange itself more scientifically. if there has already been X amount of pain keenly felt, then an equal and opposite amount of happiness is owed. but newton's laws don't cover my situation and my sense of entitlement. (which is stupid. and childish.)

but today feels different. steady. i'll go to class and the gym and buy myself some new pants. i'll walk home slowly and wonder what goes on in the minds of strangers. i'll seem purposeless. (and then i will call you and the binge begins. before i can sleep, i'll be intoxicated from the sound of your voice.)

the news: i'm in sydney, preparing to leave for halifax within the next hour or so. unfortunately, iain's immune system has landed him in hospital once again, with the sydney regional hospital as the next logical stop on his whirlwind tour. the long and short of it is that he's going to be there for a few days at least, and since my ride and i both have work tomorrow...i have to come back to halifax without him. (there is no sedative for this feeling.)

the plus side: he's set up in a massive private room with it's own shower and shit, since he's on "isolation". this also means that everyone who enters the room has to get gowned and masked up until they look like extras from the end of E.T.

the silver lining: iain was taken for a chest x-ray to look for signs of pneumonia (none) and we learned that both his lungs appear to be clear and heathly. (for those not in the know, the right lung was all filled up with nasty cancer and icky fluid before.)low and behold, the chemo has done its job.

(as for you my love, my only, i'll see you when you're better. and its okay to be apart for a few days. it has to be. i'll take this time to draw three feet of personal space around myself, inside which i can curl up in the fetal position and howl like a mad woman. the kind of woman with more cats than brains. if i am loud enough, you'll hear me, carried over the wind and past your window. make no mistake, that shuddering of glass against frame was me.)

tonight i will dream that you are well.