Drinking: Diet coke with melty ice
For the last few days, I’ve had bits and pieces of this little poem wearing a circle around my brain:
you live so many hours when
no one is watching…
and you break the feeling in, you
wear it out until the loneliness fits
as soft as an old gym shoe
loosened by hours of sweat
in phys ed
it’s ugly and sour but
you know it. know how to tie it
and just how to wiggle your toes
so they miss all the holes and
somehow you love it. familiar
misery. beloved depression.
then one day you turn and
someone is sharing your space
watching you walk through
your everyday hours.
and the new fit feels strange so
you save the old one. stash it
in the back of the closet. hide
it with dust and excuses. you know
you might need it again.
I wrote “fits” back in the days when Boy had just started hanging around. I had a passionate love/hate relationship with my singlehood, and though I didn’t always enjoy it, I was very used to being alone.
Boy has been away a lot lately for work so I’ve been on my own with the Loo, and my sister’s year-and-a-half of solitude just ended with the return of her husband from Iraq. Which explains why I keep thinking about the hours you live when no one is watching.
Even though I’m now quite used to being watched, the solitude, when it returns, retains that old gym shoe comfort — but without the sour smell.
I love my nights alone. True, I’d love them less if I weren’t greeted by an intricate Boxer dance of wiggles and spins when I walk through the door.
But with couplehood came the discovery that I am a person who craves solitude. I love being two. I love being with Boy. But I love being alone, as well.
I like to wallow in the silence. Perhaps it’s because the rush of words in my head isn’t as furious as it used to be. Perhaps because the silence is no longer accompanied by the quiet press of desperation. Perhaps because I’m no longer afraid of it. Or because now I know he’s coming back.
I never knew that before.
-Lo, who has found a lot of undeniable crap whilst searching through old piles of poetry.