Shattered windows panes wait at the foot of their frames with a nervous glance towards me. There is nothing I can do. I have had the fever for days, and like dogs and psychics can sense sickness, you watched my weakness from your dreams, woke and waited for the worst possible time to “just need to talk”.
Now and then, you knock so hard on the door that it disappears, running in fear as the windows wave goodbye and the carpet creeps under the bed to hide, and you stand, your shadow shaking at the sight of you, in the empty, echoing house with your eyes fixed on me, and I am expected to be brave. I am a mine for your mind, your shovel, selfish and submerged until you feel satisfied and safe, and I am just a pile of ashes and squandered resources on the bare floorboards.
I sewed your silhouette into my subconscious, staring with closed eyes that were too starstruck for words. Your stare was stuck to the cinema screen, serene love story lit up and reflected in your eyes, sweet fantasies, shared in secret as time ticked away, and we dreamed devoted, devious things.
My head felt heavy, hoping to rest on your chest, but propped up by trepidation. Esta noche is endless, or at least it will be when I remember it, for you are my first true love affair, and your stare stays, fixed to the cinema screen, but your hand rests softly in mine, and I will forever be aflame at the thought.
I washed up in the waves of your memory, dressed in last night’s lovely dream, hair soaked in salt water and the solemn recollection of the last time your eyes encompassed me. I only arrive when you ask. Don’t blame me for my presence, when you presented yourself to the ocean and pleaded for her to pull me back into your orbit. I am nothing but a whisper in the dark, but when you bring me here, you behave as if I am the moon and stars themselves, bowing low on the floor, writing sonnets in the sand with shaking fingertips, and I stand in cautious confusion, because you’re always so sweet, for a second or two, before the paradise of love falls away, like a sandcastle doing battle with the might of the sea.
Blue moon by the beach, bottle of cider in your hand. Blue Hawaii from the little speakers on your expensive phone. I am at home in how good this all is. You wore my favourite colour, and you seemed to shine with the stars, my heart taking flight, in the most grounded way. Your skirt spun as you danced, with nobody in particular, and I wished with all my heart that you’d fall in love with me.
There aren’t often nights like this, where I can really feel the lovely loneliness of the night, and though you’re out of my reach, I can reach for you, with nobody else in my way, grasping for a dream that will never come true, in peace.
It’s okay if you just want to drink and dance. It’s okay if it’s only a paper moon. I painted it blue, for you, and we can build a life beneath its silvery sheen, that will last as long as we let it, if you’d like to.
I can be cold, withholding and without mercy, when it comes to her, but also an explosion of affection, so, it’s no wonder she’s so all screwed up, so sewn up, keeping troubles deep inside her bones, telling her stories to her pillows.
I must confess. My kindness towards her depends on how other people love her. When she is adored, I am mad about the girl, but when she is abandoned, I am just mad.
I dress her in a coat every morning. A coat of armour. A coat of arms. A curated coat, that lets the world see her with confidence. Taking all the threads she could never quite pull together, and crafting her into something that is safe for everyone to consume.
I am mad about the girl, just now. I brush her hair every morning, I make her breakfast and bathe her in juniper berries and honey once again, like she’s a princess, because she is someone’s princess, just now, and so I want her to remember, because when the revolution comes, and the monarchy is destroyed, she will be desolate, and she will forget.
I hate when she forgets. Pathetic. Alone in bed. Staring at blank walls, that blur as the tears come. My sad girl siren. I am mad. Misanthropic and mad. Throwing her breakfast at the walls, drawing an ice bath, in the hopes that she will drown.
I drown out her continuous crying with loud recitals of what she will offer to the world when she is well again. I wrote you a new record, hunnybee. I wrote you a new poem, hunnybee. Will you fucking wake up, hunnybee? You don’t need to be adored, hunnybee.
It’s all a lie, you know. None of its true. We’re in the mansion of the mad, she and I, and she DOES need to be adored, fawned over, fought for, but it’s never enough, when it’s just me, staring at her in the mirror, mumbling some kind of self love mantra. Maybe one day it will be different, or maybe one day I’ll be enough, but until then, I monitor her moods and try to save her from herself.
Luckily for me, she is currently adored, and so, I am mad about the girl. Bringing her breakfast in bed, while she basks atop her electric blanket, like a sweet, seductive snake. I brush her hair, beautiful, black curls, soft and smelling of cinnamon, because I got some new shampoo, as a treat, a little present for her being so present at the moment.
She writes her New Year’s wishes on little slips of paper, surrounds them with sugar and submerges them in jars of honey, and for once, I think she’s happy, so, I am mad about the girl, just now. Marvellously mad.