The Attic and The Avenue

“The Attic and The Avenue”

1.

There was a time I loved
someone who did not
love me. Or, to be more fair,
I loved someone who did not love me
in equal measure:

and when he proved this to me

my heart was broken.
Or, to be more accurate,
I felt as if my legs had been
pulled from under me

and gravity sucked me down, and the floor rushed up to meet me

and laying on my back
my chest bucked and cracked
my heart leapt out
swelled and tore itself open wide-
frantic.

My heart leapt up like a flare
tore itself open
and stretched over the ceiling and the walls
stretched thin as the meniscus
between parting lips.

My heart tore itself open then
stretched itself thinner and thinner
until it disappeared completely.

My heart flew up like a flare and burnt slowly out again
until the room was dark.

All this happened
in a moment.

And then I began to cry.

2.

On the floor I cried and cried.
I wailed and moaned
on the floor like an animal.
I sobbed and held my arms
close to my chest,

like women
in countries where they are still allowed to mourn
in the ancient way-

shaking open palms at heaven:
“Why, why, why?”

Understand, I feel no shame in describing this scene-
my misery was complete and true and all consuming-
the redblack quantum opposite of joy.

I cried. And he cried.

And he came near me
and he tried to hold me
and he tried to kiss me
and he tried to make it better
in all the silly ways men try to make things better

and pressing the bridge of my nose
against the bridge of the nose
of this man that did not love me
as much as I loved him,
our faces touching and remembering one another,
wet eyes locked,
on all fours like dogs,
both dripping like erections: like the fangs of venomous snakes: like broken vessels:

I asked: “Why, why, why?”

Or more accurately: “Why not me?”

3.

I made him stay the night with me.
I figured he owed me since this
had always been his show,
and I had done everything right,
and I was afraid
to be left alone with my agony.

(I thought I needed him close.
I thought if a question occurred
to me about what was happening
then this might be my last chance
to ask it.

No questions occurred to me.)

I slept for a little while, but then he
began to snore (he was very drunk, we
both were).

I had a so much work to do
the next day, so at 4am I woke him up
and took him home.

I watched him
stagger to his door, made glowing and ghostly
by the light of pre-dawn and the neon of
the pizza place he lived over,

I thought:
“Is this the last time
I will see you? Drunk and soggy
from crying, shirtless, your jeans on your hips
with half your ass hanging out?
If so, well so be it.”

And he didn’t look back. If you knew him,
you’d know he wouldn’t. He would have never
acknowledged the significance of the moment.

Then I drove home through the fog,
and back in my bed, slept
a few black hours, empty of everything
for a little while.

I was very very hungry the following day.
I tried to eat and could not-
whatever I ate turned to stone in my throat.

I went about my business (I had no choice)
but I cried sporadically, in short bursts,
randomly and without provocation- the way
storms happen in the summer
in the South near salt-water.

I cried in this random way
all day and I began to feel ridiculous.
I recognized the numbness
I had been told about before
by friends who had experienced a deep and shocking sadness

and I again felt ridiculous.

I let my vision, my heart, and my silver line
fog over like
windows in a storm.

Then I drove out of town.
Then I flew away.

And I was gone. And it was all over. Just like that.

4.

Don’t get me wrong
I had been aware for weeks

this would end.

What I did not realize, is
exactly what “this would end” would mean.

What I did not realize, is
that I never knew when it began ending.

What I did not realize, is
that it was ending before I ever found it.

There was a black cloud
of stones and feathers,
but I did not know
what it meant at all

to be drawn down
to the bottom of the sea
down in the starless ink

where it is hazy and numb and good,
where it is dark and cold and good,

and my sweet little blue broken heart
sings to schools of clichés.

There are plenty of them there
and more come by all the time.
I hum blues tunes to myself.
I hum sad songs to myself.

There are plenty of clichés in the sea:

“Love hurts”
“Only time can heal a broken heart”
“Everything will be alright.”

No. No it won’t.

But it will
be different, it will be something
it was not before:

Growing quietly
at the bottom of the sea.
Sleeping pale and sleeping strong
and dreaming dreams not of You.

5.

All the things you never said
weighed so much
the gravity of the world changed
and eventually I was made of black stone.

I never told you,
the first time I went to the Bluebird Café
without you, I wanted the waiter that always served us
to ask where you were.

But he didn’t.
He just asked how I was doing,
and called me by name. Like you were never there at all.

I cried in my eggs
and just drank my coffee
and frowned at the wall.

There were a few times
within our short time
in my little bed in my little Attic
our faces very close
when you touched my cheek
and looked right into my eyes with love.

When did you stop?
I don’t know.

When, upon seeing me
looking at you wide open with love,
did you begin thinking:
“I cannot do this any more.”
“This will be the last time.”

Did you feel you were hurting yourself?
Did you feel you were leading me on?

Who knows? You never said.
You just loved and loved
and then stopped.

6.

Early on, we had a conversation
about Iran, and made a bet that required
that we know each other in 5 years.

You smiled. You were pleased
I suggested we might know each other in 5 years.
It never crossed my mind
that we wouldn’t.

I went up on stage.
And I watched you
in the crowd the entire time.
We did all 16 dances

in that ridiculous club and you
kissed me right there
in front of the heterosexual masses,
because fuck them.

I’ve never had anyone
in my life tell me so often how glad he was to know me.
And it set me alight on the Avenue. Loving everything. I mean really loving everything-
until I had to admit I had broken through
to the other side of something
and was really happy

they way people
are happy in films and literature.
And for that, you’ll always be my baby.

My love, my baby
my wild happiness that was not mine:

For everything I released
to the sky
there was something
I captured in my bed

For everything I wrapped my arms around
in the darkness of my bed
there was something I released
to the sun in the sky.

But these were never the same things
until I had no choice.

This, my love, my baby,
this is how love

builds us and breaks us and births us and burns us up again
until we only exist as accepting and giving
and laughing and agreeing and fucking and crying until

the lines between things disappear completely
as the sun bleaches everything white.

Wrapped in sheets or wandering in and out of bars,
in the Attic and on the Avenue

you smiled and put your hand on my arm,
you made me a lover,

a lover of you and a lover of everything-
on fire with joy.

May 2007 Atlanta, Los Angeles, Auckland