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Scribe
Join Date: Oct 2005
Posts: 90
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I Hate the Sun/ not sure if it fits here
I hate the sun. It sneaks through my window and tears at my eyelids. They open to reveal my cracked red eyes. Five more minutes. I lay in the bed alone. Her place is empty. The once warm space on the blankets that she occupied is now cold and lifeless. I hide myself under the covers to block my enemy from reaching me. I give in, I must get up. This day has to continue. I stand up in the sunlight, I hate the sun.
I hate the water, As I stand in the warm, pelting rain of the shower I try to wash away the memory, but I can not. I close my eyes and let the water cleanse my face, I see her in the darkness, her long back that I was allowed to scrub. I turn and let the water beat against my own back and think of the times she would caress and scrub mine. I see the shimmer of light reflecting in the drops of water and think of her eyes. The small suds that reached them caused them to glisten in her pain. It was beautiful torture. I hate the water.
I hate the emptiness. Peering in my dresser and sifting through my closet, I see the space that was once filled with her clothes. The soft satins, and smooth dresses that, at one time, brought a smile to my face just to see them are gone. I wander where they could be now. Does the other man treasure her garments as I once did? Who now is helping her with her zippers? The closet is half barren. The dresser is now occupied by air. I hate the emptiness.
I hate the cat. The furry, fuzzy, purring creature that always brought a smile to her face resembles her in every way. The whiteness of her coat reminds me of the purity that I thought she once had. She circles my feet waiting for any attention, I give her none, I can not for it pains me to acknowledge her presence. She sits and broods, meticulously cleaning and warming herself in the light of the window. I hate the cat.
I hate the grass. As I look across the front yard I hear the laughter that, at one time, occupied the silence of it now. The day of football that ended in wrestling and playing in the grass. She was dirty but beautiful all the more. It was free then. We were free to touch, play and laugh with each other. Those days are gone. The grass grows high and the weeds are taking over. I can not tolerate to walk in it for remembrance of her would surely kill me. I hate the grass.
I hate this car. She brought it with her, and now she left it with me. It is torture for me. It still smells of her. The shifter knob, worn clean of the numbers, holds the texture of her hands and is still slick from her lotion. The miles that show only serve to reflect all the wasted trips and the length of our travels together. It was zero at one time now it was innumerable. We were moving all the time. Then we weren’t. Ending as suddenly as this trip. I hate this car.
I hate this sidewalk. It was one of many steps that we shared in unison. Holding hands in a harmonious gate, laughing and poking the entire trek. The day she stumbled comes to memory. I see the fear in her eyes as if it were yesterday. I was her hero. I picked her up and carried her to the destination. I kissed and healed her wounds. The scrape on her knee. I wander what the scar looks like now. I can see her feet, the silver band that adorned her toe, and how clean they always were. I loved her feet, and calves, I loved her entirely. The freckles, the scars, the perfections and the flaws. I loved her navel, and her dry elbows. She would jab them into my side on our walks around this park. I hate this sidewalk.
I hate this bench. It is the location of the beginning. Our first kiss. The day the rockets fired. The day I heard the thunderous boom of lust and love echo in my ears. I saw a flash the moment our lips touched, the same flash never failed to appear at every further connection. I can taste her lip balm. The strawberry melon tingled on my lips as they pressed firmly against hers. I can feel her hair, the soft satin stalks of hay that fell across her shoulders and flowed through my fingers. I hate this bench.
I hate these geese. The days we would nourish them with joy and frolic in our hearts. Oh, how she loved them. I can hear her squeal when the beaks would get too close to her fingers. She loved to see them. Weekly trips just to see them, all for her. They would come at her sight, much like I came to her every beckoning call. She would give them what she had, much like me. And then, when there was none left to give, they would retreat back to the water. When did I run out of things to give, did I run out? Or did she grow tired of the bread that I was giving her? I hate these geese.
I hate this lake. The night of marvelous deviance. Laughing, hearts pounding, hands shaking. Shedding off our clothes and going in. The cold water tingling our skin and stopping our hearts for an instant. They would recharge and beat ever faster as we embraced under the stars of that night. The cold would leave us melting into the heat of each other, kissing, playing, wrestling in that frigid water. Oh what fun it was being deviant with her in the early days when our love was new. Taking advantage of every free moment to sneak away and love in the shadows. There were no cares, no fears, no struggle between us then. Why did that have to leave. What was the wedge that came between us? The weeds grew between us just like around the water. They are tall now, too tall to even reach the water. I hate this lake.
I hate these lights. Driving through the city the neon fills the air. I remember the nights of searching for the neon. The dancing, the parties, the smile in her eyes. We were wild once, when we were young and first together. The endless drives to new cities in search of more neon. The search led us down back roads, got us lost, but always left us ever sure of our direction together. She loved the lights. Did she still love them? Our days of neon nights ended long ago when we matured and grew together. The lights were no longer required for our pleasure. Or were they? Did she still need the neon? I hate these lights.
I hate this bar. The smoky dingy air. The acrid smell of old booze. I am driven here in search of pleasure. The hole she left in me needs to be filled. I search in the darkness for one to take the pain, no, hide the pain. Another can not take it from me, it is mine and it will never leave. The hole will never be filled. It can be forgotten for a short while. I search in vain for a mask. Someone or something in this place can mask the emptiness that she left. We were here once. She did not like it. It was towards the end, she was ashamed to be seen with me. She sat, sipping her cocktail, in pure disgust of my presence. I remember the scorn in her eyes. I sat, bewildered, trying to appease, unsure of my sins. Her crossed arms, pursed lips, darted eyes, stifled my speech. I was powerless in her presence that night. What caused her hatred of me? I hate this bar.
I hate this bottle. At the table where we once ate our meals, planned our finances, dreamed our future, the bottle shames me into morbid disgust of my own presence. I can not embrace it, but yet I can not leave it. It is my only companion since my greatest companion is gone. I can hear the bacon sizzle on the stove and I see her, standing in her simple elegance, the large T-shirt resting at the top of her thighs, she loved to cook on Sunday mornings. I would sit here and watch her. The gentle way she turned the bacon so not to get burnt. I can hear the smoke detector above my head blaring it’s warning the morning she forgot the toast. I see her, in frantic panic, cheeks flushed red at the embarrassment and revelation of her imperfectness. The toast was burnt, but delicious. She cried that morning and my love grew stronger. I can see a shimmer of light through the circles formed at the bottom of the bottle, it matches the shimmer of tears in her eyes that day. The stove is cold now, no one uses it anymore. The cabinets are bare, the icebox is deserted. All that’s left are the memories and the cold. The memories are fading and the cold is growing near. I hate this bottle.
I hate the moon. Looking through the window I can see the distorted image of the yellow ball in the heavens. The moon sees all, he knows all. He knows where she is now. I can hear the crickets the night we slept outside. The trip was her idea. Under the stars, snuggled in a sleeping bag, the two of us peer at God’s little lanterns twinkling on and off in the heavens. The pungent beautiful smell of our bodies joining and lingering in the air together. The day left us sweaty and the outdoors left no means for a cleaning. Her smell was delightful. It was natural, it was her, purely. I could not hate that, I had no option but to love it. I can still smell her. I can still taste the sweat from her neck on that warm night. She trusted me then, and relied on me, and loved me. All I have is the moon to keep the memories. The moon holds promise for a new day. It is a reflection of what is to come. It gives me a trace of hope and a means of mourning. I hate the moon.
I hate this bed. I lay here motionless in the dark, trying to no avail to ease and calm my racing mind. She is beside me, I can feel her frigid feet under the covers. She always had cold feet. They would dig and borough in the tunnel of my legs until they were nestled and warmed. I gave her a present of thermal socks once, she scorned me. I did not understand. I do now. The moments of searching for warmth were fragile and innocent. They were moments of love, true love, true reliance on me. It was her way of saying she needed me, and I did not see it then. I do now, I long for her feet of ice to rub against my legs again. If I only had the chance again, I would treasure every moment of her presence. I would lie in the bed the night through watching her sleep, her chest rise and fall. The symphonies of snores would not irritate me now, they would appease my longings. I hate this bed.
I hate this silence. The nothingness of my presence in this room, sleep is an extinct occurrence. The silence of the night overwhelms me in the shadow of my pathetic existence without her. She was the meaning in my life. She filled the silence in my soul. However out of tune she may have been, her jovial singing brought joy in my cockles, and now tears to my eyes in the memory. The silence is filled with the memories of her. The voice that eased my tension. The sneezes that elated my heart. Her sound is gone. I hate the silence.
My swollen eyelids open to the blistering blinding light. I hate the sun.
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