Good night.

The kitchen lights hung red it and glowing, as if I sat in the glare of two taillights, always reminding me of what was receding. The cars where tired lovers leave you perched on the empty front steps steeped in the red light of a departure, until they turn a corner and the swollen dark consumes you. And you turn keys into ever blacker halls that blind you,
until you flick on the red glowing lights and sit.

Silence crawls through me and settles in my mind as I bathe in the glow of the burning goodbye that burns me to ash when the light fades.
And I sit.
No matter how bright the day had been, the nights are always dark, no light from your sun to guide me; only a sliver of moon peeking out from behind the solid distance between us.
In the hum of the taillights I can still hear your laughter. Like liquor dancing through my veins, like wildflowers, wildfires, live wires. Infecting me with the electricity of the sound, scraping mortar into the cracks where I broke down under the impossible weight of separation, pouring cement to rebuild my foundation after your earthquake hit. And I'm not saying that we shook cities to the ground. Those rumbles were just the sound of two solid masses moving farther apart. And though the distance was nothing more than a week, it weakened me. Ripped the seams I'd sewn tight between us and I fell apart. But above all, I missed your laughter. A lullaby that lays my weary heart to rest. The way the corners of your eyes crease at the corners as you try to hold it in, before you tilt your head back and let it loose. Bathes me in a rich flow of contentment

And I can still hear it echoing through my emptiness and I sit in the red glow of my kitchen.
the sounds: the hum and groan of the tired laptop, the obedient ticking of the mounted clock above the muted television, and the desperate silent begging of the two goldfish in the large glass bowl on the cluttered table; making trickling noises as they open and close their mouths on the surface of their water though there is nothing there to eat, anymore.
The smells: stale sweat from the old teeshirt hanging limply on my frame, the traces of yet another left over dinner, old vegetable soup. A bouquet of night sented stock attempting feebly to elbow its way to the front of the crowd, but I only catch a glimpse of her sweet and soothing perfume.
The sights: An empty kitchen at night time. orange peels litter the counter by the sink, two pots of soup sit on a dirty stove, the ladles resting on their rims. dirty cups and slowly rotting fruit sit on the cutting board, a fruit fly their only company. Four cupboard doors open, my mother's pet peeve. (Good thing she isn't here.) The tv, muted, on the family channel after an unsuccessful surf through the hundred something possibilities. Two hanging lights cased in red glass give the room an eerie glow remminiscent to the glare of taillights, reminding me that everyone I loved was off on the road, and I was left here.
The feelings: arms resting on the cold granite counter, goosebumps raised on my arms. the heels of my hands on the silver laptop keyboard, slightly warm and humming from the day's work. Something had my stomach in a knot, and it wasn't hunger, but I felt that too. A fatigue headache had set in as the clock continued to tick on and on into the night.
The emotions: Dead and empty as the house I was in, I was unable to lift myself from the sludge I myself had created. Call it what you want, bipolar, depression, or just spineless self wallowing, I was as hollow and alone as a pumpkin on the first of november. And I couldn't take it. Mind numbing silence and time stretching loneliness were my poisons, and I drink them almost greedily. I can't help it, I'm addicted.


Lets make love.
Let's make the dark night shine
let's make bliss and happiness,
and I will make you mine.

Turn our scabbed hearts into rubies;
our tears into diamond skies.
burn our fears to embers
and watch the ashes rise.

We'll complete the circle,
fill in all the cracks
with our heads held high,
never looking back.