Sunday, January 9, 2011

I’ll Cry Tomorrow.

I’ll Cry Tomorrow.

I’ll Cry Tomorrow. It’s what I think when I roll over in the sheets once more. It doesn’t matter if my tears come today. I can still smell you in these sheets and taste you on my skin. When I close my eyes you are still here with me. No mistake can be made. The salty taste of you is still fresh in my mouth. When I swallow all I taste is your kiss. The scent of you lingers in my hair. And when it touches my face I instinctively reach over to find you when you’re not there. But I don’t want to move. I like laying here in our sheets. For more than three days I’ve slept in them. And now another day beckons to me to wake.

I can feel the warmth of the sunlight against my skin that breaks through the smallest crack in the window. There’s no point in opening my eyes. The darkness can not block out the ray of light. It penetrates the thin veil of my eyelids. Redness spreads across my view as the warmth crawls up my bare legs. A warmth that reminds me of you as I let it climb toward the place between my legs. A place that you like to linger when you’re here. Here with me.

The night before last night I almost spilled a glass of wine on the bed. It fell when I leaned into that place you lay your head when I’m letting my mouth wander. I wanted to see how you see things when I let my mouth keep you from forgetting me. The same way I’m trying to keep you close to me. In my mind the way you’re in my mouth. Then there in that place the glass tumbled. The spill that almost was missed the bed.

Almost isn’t the same as doing. And I never changed the sheets. I had my reason for leaving them. I wanted your smell to stay with me another day. Today, Tomorrow, and Yesterday have and will happen. I find ways to focus on the present only knowing that you’re still in bed when I get home. Somehow I know they won’t bring you back, but I keep telling myself that I’ll change them tomorrow.

Now it’s Sunday. More than three days since I’ve seen you. Been with you. Touched you. Remembering how we touched 18 different times between the covers that morning before you left. The phone rings. I ignore it. Because I know it isn’t you. It’s not like that with us. You aren’t calling me to… And I’m not picking up.

I’m right it’s not you. Opening my eyes, I sit up and listen to the voice. It’s Thompson. He tells me that it will be another day. You’re away until tomorrow. Tomorrow. That’s when you’ll be closer. Closer to where? The call ends with a slam and I’m wrapping my arms in the 300 thread count Egyptian cotton and leaning forward. Before long I’m standing in the middle of the room with the smell of your arms wrapped around my bare skin.

More than three days since there were tears. It’s been more like four or five since we touched. You’re gone. But you’re still here. Here in the room. If you can taste and smell something doesn’t that make it real? Two sensory experiences and the rest of your mind fills in the gaps. I know my senses are lying. And I’m sleeping with your ghost. Cheating on the present with the ghost of the past while you’re away.

Instantly when I cross the room I then circle back because the smell is fading. The taste no longer seems as vivid. More than ever the tears want to be here. There’s something missing and I’m thinking that tomorrow is today.

Tomorrow. We keep saying tomorrow when we should be saying today. Tomorrow I’ll pick up the laundry. Tomorrow I’ll go to the grocer’s. Tomorrow I’ll get out of bed earlier. Tomorrow you’ll be home. Tomorrow I’ll see your face. And tomorrow when you’re not closer… Tomorrow, I’ll cry tomorrow.

Why put off anything until tomorrow? The day may be your last. Is this how you want it to end? Unfinished business is the cornerstone of our generation. And when the world comes down there will be something that has gone undone. If you have to put off anything then it may as well be the tears. The tears will come and go, but will they be eternal? Anyway… thinking of Matisse and letting you make up your own minds. Enjoy. Kisses. m.

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