It seems silly to begin. Or absurd.
Instead of sleeping beside you, I have terrible, ragged thoughts. Thoughts of quietly getting a dull knife from the kitchen and sitting with it in the bathroom. Of sitting, on the tile, with it.
In these thoughts, I only slice down one forearm, and I think about the time it takes for draining to happen. On whether or not it would feel like getting thinner, or light enough to float for a little bit, above ground.
The image, then, of me, hovering heavily a little bit above ground on the 10th floor seems surreal, and mostly absurd. I think what I pathetically want to say is that I want to hurt so that I can cry.
I am unable to see the point most times, now. Only the full hilt of worthlessness.
I'd lay my cheek on the tile, you know. The cold ground which harbors nothing. Which only keeps my feet from lifting to a suspended place.
I want desperately to lie on the floor there, but I don't. Instead, I use the toilet, and walk to the window. Somewhere around and outside of me you sleep like a barely perspiring mammal, and I stand inside the curtain.
Outside the streets look slick with ailing winter, and one lagging cab slows crawls by. I spy a slight flicker of light shifting on a storefront window, and know a person's shadow walks by there.
Across the street in the roof of the next building there are puddles and I see ripples spreading out like skirts and know then, that it is raining.
It is cold outside, just like tile. I am nauseated with myself, in bed.
And you, you are sleeping somewhere. Maybe not sleeping. Maybe you are awake for a moment, watching the edge of fabric move imperceptibly along your wall. I miss you. I am unwell.
Tonight I cannot bear to be with myself.
James Wright wrote, I have wasted my life. And Rilke, You must change your life. I do not want mine to be, I am going to end my life.
I do not know what I wait for.
