When I Imagine The Two Of Them Together


Sometimes when it’s silent and I take a deep breath and close my eyes, I’m haunted by the two of them. I see their bodies, like hazy silhouettes in my mind. I imagine them in the darkness, their movements in the shadow of a bedroom light, dull and fleshy and mechanical.

Sometimes I wonder how it happened, the two of them. If it was a week night, and they were both feeling their own loneliness like a metal blanket over their shoulders.

I wonder if they were drunk. I wonder if it was late and their heads were spinning with beer and smoke. I wonder if they kissed. If it was passionate.

I wonder if they were rushed or hurried because they could taste the guilt on each other’s mouths.

I wonder if he closed his eyes. If when he brushed back a strand of her hair, he faltered, because the image of me was unmistakable on her face.

I wonder if he whispered my name in the back of his mind as he made eye contact with the mirror, saw his own face reflected back at him, shadowed and hollow.

I wonder if he thought of me, of my eyes, of my smile. Then took a breath and let out a cry so raw and guttural. The unmistakable sound of a heart breaking.