It's cold all the time, here in the fork. My eyes don't seem to focus anymore.
She left one week ago from today.
I walk up harminor boulevard, on my way home from my 9-5 desk job, stuck in a cube. I open the door to my 1200 square foot home that I owe my life on.
I bought it for us, so we would have a place to live. Together.
I walk through the dirty house, papers scattered, empty bottles of rum, vodka and beer lay around the floor. I hear the crunching of broken glass under my foot, it's our picture. The frame fell off the table after she slammed the door. It's a photo of just me and Her. I pick it up and hold it in front of me, starring. My eyes water. I fold up the picture and tuck it into my chest pocket. I loosen my tie as I check the messages. It's Emily, she just got back from a two year trip around the world.
I should have gone.
She is wondering if she can come over and visit, the last time I saw her, was at my wedding, two years ago. I delete it. Look out of the kitchen window, the garden is over grown, the corn is falling over, the tomatoes are dieing, the peaches are rotting, falling off the branches, birds are choking them down. The beans are dried. The beets have been devoured by some type of animal, rabbit, raccon, I don't care.
The birds are picking out the eyes of my scarecrow.
I walk to the bathroom, trip on my old guitar, broken strings, splintered wood. I remember when I use to play. I'd play small shows, but people seemed to enjoy it, i don't know why. I remember when I went on tour to release my first album, She tagged along. I remember when I went on tour for my second album. I asked her to marry me on that tour. . .
The bathroom smells, I don't care. I don't even wash my hands after I'm done.
I head back to the kitchen. Paper is everywhere. My writing. My SHIT. How did I ever think it could be published. I pick up the only manuscript that was ever accepted. The first one I ever submitted, I read the first line.
"It's cold all the time, here in the fork. My eyes don't seem to focus anymore."
BULLSHIT! How in Gods holy kingdom did someone publish that? How did I think someone would read that. I throw the failed novel across the room. I pick up a poem, "The whore on 39th" i tear it in half. I pick up another. "Welcome happiness" I crumble it up, and throw it. I pick up another manuscript, rejected, twelve times. I throw it at the television, i picked up for 40 bucks at a second hand store. I reach for my chest pocket, looking for a cigarette, I find the photo of us, from the day she said yes. She was wearing my jacket. I pick up my keys, drop them in the sink, my car is still broken. I loosen my tie a bit more, kick off my shoes. Grab the bottle of wine that we were supposed to share today, our anniversary. I pick up my wallet, seven dollars. I walk outside, standing on the front stairs, I take a drink. Pull off my socks, take off my tie. I step onto the grass, It doesn't feel as cold as it usually does. I walk the two and a half miles to the gas station. My last seven dollars on a pack of camels, turkish gold, or as we called them , turkish loves, turkish candy. it was our brand, it was our Cigarette.
There she is, With him.
The air, the sidewalk, my skin, has never felt as cold as it does now.
I walk alone, I sleep alone, I eat alone, I drink alone, I am with nothing but the memories of failed novels, poetry no one ever read, and an old broken guitar. I die alone, holding our photo in my hand. . .