A Delicate Void

The Sweetest Disposition

At times I recall the broken glass,
The smell of burnt coffee,
The muffled screams - his voice hoarse,
And the missed opportunities that will never come again.

In certain shades of darkness I remember
The late night phone calls,
The endless conversations,
The sound of his voice.

Most of the memories are disappearing,
Some of them stick around,
Like a thick fog that inhabits my lungs,
Never letting go.

Like a scolded child, I knew better
From the very beginning.
The consequences that were to follow
Were greater than expected.

Two roads diverged,
And I took neither.
I strayed from either path and created
A trail of pain killers and dusty photographs.

The photographs had burnt edges,
And handwriting so crisp that
It looked new,
The ink flowing off of the paper like water.

I would show him the photos,
I would ask him the typical questions,
Like
Who is this?

He would shake his head,
Grit his teeth,
Run his hand through his
Dusty blonde hair.

He reminded me of a broken record,
Glycerine,
Constantly playing in the back of my mind,
Haunting me.

The photos would stay on the corner of my desk,
their edges torn, crinkled,
Softly edging him on.
He would answer nothing.

After six months of no progress,
He would look up at me,
The familiar smirk spread across his face,
The rose-petal lips inviting me to answer to him.

It began as a game,
More of a competition to see,
Who would be the first to
Crack.

He would worm himself in the deepest,
Dustiest corners of my subconscious.
He resembled everything I hated,
Making me feel like a child.

He never made much progress,
Our conversations mostly consisted of 
Him asking me questions and 
Flirting shamelessly.

 He reminded me of cherry blossoms,
And freshly mowed grass,
And summer as a
Whole.

He would sit in my bedroom
Cocky and full of laughter,
And feed me bullshit excuses
That I saw right through.

I knew the truth about his relationship
With his mother.
I knew how much he
Despised her.

He was quarterback,
Popular, talented, intelligent.
He had no reason to
Be suicidal.

On the outside, he looked okay.
He was put together,
Complete.
But on the inside, he was completely broken.

He used to sit in my bedroom,
Feet up,
Head threw back,
Cobalt eyes focused on my ceiling.

And now he sits,
In another bedroom,
With his feet propped on someone else's desk,
With his eyes focused on something else.

And now I wonder,
If anything he ever told me was true.
And I think back to things I discovered,
And I realize things I never thought to imagine.

I still drink my coffee black,
And I still think of mowed grass,
And the boy
Who was broken.

I still go through the pictures,
And drink a glass of red wine,
And try to ask myself the same questions
About the photographs on the edge of my desk.

I step over the broken glass,
And sink to the tile floor of my kitchen,
And remember the boy
With the sweetest disposition.