Death is a bitter whore that steals away into the shadows of the night
Injected into the depths of her blackened soul remains the turmoil of my blood
Into the streets she plays a melancholy symphony
Is this a mockery giving birth to vengeance?
Death is the mother of all cunts that suffers from a night’s seduction
Wanting, craving, yearning in close proximities with whiskey and bourbon
Slayed by the knight and at the mercy of the Heart
Death befalls us.
But he's still alive, breathing. Just like the walking dead. The overpowering scent of the vodka teases his nose. His body feels tingly from last night; a soiree of illegal delicacies brought on by the embrace of depression. He feels broken, not quite prepared to tackle the day ahead.
But it wasn't even like this the week before, the time when it all began. He was sure he loved her. He might even still love her, but what do you do when you're just not certain of anything any more. When it seems like she has changed and you have changed, and the world remains the same, do you sever the ties or do you keep walking, dead but breathing?
When he didn't see her for a week, he felt invigorated. He felt something new across the horizon. He went out with friends, went to a nightclub and danced away while pissed drunk from a farewell party earlier in the night. He even met a girl, not the love of his life, maybe not even for sex, but he was beginning to move on. Sure at the back of his head, he had hoped that one day maybe they are destined to be, but at that moment, he was ready to try something else, someone else. That is how he was supposed to move on, wasn't it? To get fucked and screwed over, in the most literal sense. Clearly, he had been out of the dating scene for awhile. He wasn't sure how the game was played, what signals were given and what they meant.
"I had a great night tonight," she whispered with a teasing smile. "I'm really not looking for anything serious right now, but I like you."
So was he just a fuck buddy? Or the fact that she did like him meant that maybe at one point in the future they may have something serious? He wasn't even into her. And like before, he was always comparing and doubting. Now it almost feels like he made a terrible mistake.
What if he never finds anyone else? What if she moves on completely without him? What if he had made a mistake? What if they were really meant to be together? But what if they're not? What if he only cares for her because she cares or because she was interested in someone else? Is this even love? She's beautiful. But jealousy has reared its ugly head. They used to fight all the time. All I hear is her complaining. Am I not good enough for her? All I see is the past. All I feel is jealousy and sometimes even rage. Do I trust her? Do I believe her with her truths or half-truths? Do I believe in her? Do I even believe in us?
Always comparing. They tell me to move on. I wish there was a manual for that. But I found something even better. Google agrees with me. With the number of forums, blogs, and articles, I can move on from a long-term relationship in 30 days. Hell, a week might even do it. That's really it, isn't it? It's not that I cannot move on. It's that a part of me will always wonder if it's the right choice or if I'm just giving up--on her, on him, on this damn relationship that was supposed to last forever. It was strange to think that someone who was a part of my life for a number of years can seemingly be dead to me. All because we let it run its course, and now it's only arid and if we keep letting it waste, the decay will start to smell. But they both had their faults--they were both impatient and immature, jealous creatures that didn't think practically or analyzed the details of their eventful lives. They were both headstrong and jumped into things far too quickly--too fast and too soon. A quicksand slowly burying them deeper and deeper. When it came to each other, it was impossible to think lucidly. Most of their decisions were based on instinct and emotion. They thrived on living life to the fullest and making it count when it mattered. People would talk and have their own bullshit opinions, but they didn't care. When they hurt each other, the pain was excruciating. When they loved, they love passionately. It didn't matter if it was wrong, as long as it felt right. And the jealousy was insane, gripping him and churning his insides. He couldn't let go of that feeling to punch someone out, for just looking at her or her for initiating something with him. It was in her nature, explosive and flirtatious, especially when Jack and Coke kept her company.
There was a good time when he didn't want to leave her side ever. He wanted to see her, hear her voice before he went to sleep, listen to her talk, hear her thoughts, and feel her pain. He was in love with her. And she loved him too. Did everything else matter? Destructive and unhealthy--should it really have any bearing? And now she's gone and all the love songs are aimed at him. Suddenly, couples are walking the streets to remind him of what he surrendered, mocking him of what he is afraid he can never once again have. He sighed. Was there truth to that, he asked aloud, a part of him hoping for an answer.
Someone once told him it was an injustice for allowing death to drain him of love and life. It takes one day at a time and in 30 days, the probability is great that he might have slept with a dozen girls, broken a couple of hearts, abandoned himself in drunken stupor, or perhaps simply resorted to being a hermit with a heavy heart.
Death has befallen. At least for now, if I am to move on, she cannot exist in my world. That world we once shared--just another memory, slowly fading. At hindsight, what he has not yet realized is that somewhere out there, some afternoon in this mad city of New York in the middle of summer maybe, he runs into that girl at the coffee shop and evokes a smile.
Another shot of vodka. His heart beats to a song. He smiles. He might live.
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