By: Christopher B. Carver Autumn 1999
Thirty Two steps, about a minute more or less.
The sixty seconds of my night when my world falls
and my heart breaks
and things don’t seem so perfect.
The walk inside the apartment,
the look around.
Dishes dirtied, clothes crumpled, CDs strewn.
A reflection really- of what those things see in me.
A quick glance at the machine,
and the little box beside it—the last hope for my crashing spirit.
The verdict—zero new.
What a shame.
I know you love me—and it means a lot.
More than you will ever know in fact.
And, truly, I love you too.
But you are—my friend.
And that is good—and it is wonderful
and I don’t want to want more, to need more—
but I do.
And that need gnaws and festers and never heals.
My biggest question as I collapse into my bed:
Will it ever heal?
Some wounds never do—they live on in stone
and stare back at you from the other side of the mirror.
You tell me how great a person I am—and I know you believe
But do I?
And will someone else ever believe
Or even know
Or even try?
I play my music, write my sad sonnets, and think of you and all the others
And I smile.
But when I can resist no longer my thoughts are directed to the one.
The one who will comfort all this—
Wipe it away with a sly grin or a gentle touch
But later, after that pain has run its course—
that virus of want and despair and loneliness—
a part of me acknowledges what I already suspected.
The only one who can truly comfort me—
Is me.
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