Tuesday, February 14, 2012

The Sound of Missing

It was not a question. He was certain of it.
The most romantic way he'd ever been kissed was at night, in the cool Texas air that February. While leaning on her open driver-side door window talking to her inside the white beast, the lady Cop, in mid-sentence she grabbed his shirt collar, yanked him to her face and thrust her lips onto his. And he was kissed hard and he was kissed well. And just before they connected, he caught her playful grin. . .

Sleeping was now something he did with unease, if wasn't the dreams that haunted him, it was the feeling of that cold bed. . . So uninviting. . . And this winter it grows cold, so the bed does as well, cold to the touch. Laying in the twin size and looking at nothing but a blank space on the wall, it was hard not to see her again.

Some how they got separated in the middle of their sleep, she was laying across from him in the huge California king, sleeping soundly, breathing softly. And as he watched her not exactly wake up, she patted the bed, searching for him, her eyes moving behind her lids, and mouth generating moans of wanting. After savoring that little beat, he wiggled over and felt as she slid her hands over him, her silky skin, that wonderfully long and soft hair, and of course, that warm body. So warm. Like a sun, or a star, she had an energy inside herself he could feel in his bones every time they touched. The feeling of her in his arms, on his chest, legs wrapped around him and kissing his cheek humming softly was a one word descriptive he would never dispute with himself: Divine.

That was one of many things that would calmly arrive in his thoughts, invading his consciousness like a snake through the grass, and try as he might to fight off the memories--he knew he enjoyed them. Masochistic tendencies were nothing of interest to him--but she was--so he made adjustments. Missing her was something he had to adjust to. A new physical condition he now had, and though he wasn't limping and straining visibly, the weight was there, the mark had been made, the damage was done.

That bed. The lonely bed, a place of hurting, of fear, of solitude the likes of which were in no way enjoyable.

The sound of missing.

Something he knew well, he knew the best, he knew better than the rest. It was something deep inside him that followed him everywhere he went, more loyal than any dog.
It was there when he slept, and there when he woke.
Always at his side. The sound of missing was something he felt in the marrow of his bones, ingrained into his DNA. He was now the only tree in his forest, the squirrels had left him, the birds had no nests--he wasn't even good enough to chop down. If he fell no one would give a damn. No one would hear--and that's just no way to be. Something had truly changed him, forever. There was no going back.

The sound, the sound, the sound of missing. . . was comprised of something.
Oh yes, something.

It was a word.

A word, a word, a four letter word. And this word since the moment of it's birth, since the second of it's inception was stronger than anything else inside him. It was a seed that had sprouted and grew roots and vines and things that planted and grabbed onto the innards of his soul. And grew so large. . . Oh so large. It swam with life and vigor, with the utmost vibrancy through his veins, pumping the blood to his heart.

A word, a word a four letter word.

The sound of missing.

And with it it brought all it's beautiful sounds and tragic music. It's magical compositions and orchestrations.

This word, this word, this four letter word was his most faithful companion, his most loyal subject. Completely washed over in it, encapsulated, after years of it's undying and unrelenting servitude he knew it was a death sentence. There's was nothing he could do to escape it, he was forever a slave to it. It was out of his control.

And even after years of abuse, of wear-and-tear and emotional disenchantment there was one thing he knew from the first encounter he had with this word. He knew then, he knew yesterday, he knew today and he would know tomorrow. It was an indisputable, undeniable fact. . .

He loved her.
He loved her.
He loved her.

Nothing else mattered. 

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