what I can't do

I cant write.

I can't scratch the feelings from my chest on to paper

and release myself from all the thousand tears

tearing at my throat hoping to be flooded out.

I cant convince heaven to intervene swiftly

and with great change

I only see the tiny impairments to reality

and the small salvations.

I cant keep a mood.

a swift sea change

more resembling menopause than sanity.

I can't win you back.

I can't win me forward.

I can't choose the right song.

to dance you to and out of our doubt.

I didn't mean to say that.

I didn't mean to bring that into it.

And I can't write.

I've got complaints for days and

the philosophy and logic to imagine all dangerous scenarios

leading me to crazy town.

I can't stop feeling.

I can't stop forming thoughts of what I never should have done.

I can't can't anymore.

For a time I have been seeing the moon more than the sun.

But not the shimmer glow, like the love of your life in a silver dress,

not that beauty of the moon, but the black and blue night

bruised by its failures of not being big enough to fill the whole sky with light

like the sun can.

Breakfast at Noon

This morning at breakfast, next to me, sat two mid-40's women. They chatted casually about life. The restaurant is located within an affluent area of the north side of Chicago. Its aesthetic is humbly demur, cute-chic; idyllic brunch option for this neighborhood. It is set up grocery/cafe style. Small tables, barely fitting two human beings, squeezed next to each other. Strollers everywhere. Children being talked to as adults, withholding equality. The patron demographic is the same. But with this sort money and need for relevant posh vanity comes a certain degree of depth. Two inches is depth too, you know? The woman next to and across from me is the main instigator of their earnest banality:

Halloween is just so overdone now. What happened to the door-to-door days when I didn't have to listen to every bored housewife's monotonous tragedy. I wish I were a Dad! I would get to go out with my child. It'd be much easier. How is Andrew doing now? Will he be okay being out with Mark? or is that still an issue? I hope not.

She continued in this nature for several minutes, with the lesser interested one, directly beside me, sorting through the ideas. There is no tone of exasperation or overdrawn shrill, they are merely talking, very seriously, about how annoying Trick-orTreating has become. I have sympathy for them. Not pity, but sympathy. They care so much because they have nothing of import to direct their attention. They long for passion and love their families and their comfort, so they fixate on the social implications of Halloween being on a weekday this year. The one next to me, she cares, but at a distant. I think she knows that they are discussing something somewhat useless. Her affirmation is just involved enough to propel the other further into the subject. But she is certainly not asking questions. And I'm fairly positive she knows I am listening. I haven't moved in a few minutes and my chicken sausage patty is not that riveting.

A gaggle of children follow behind their Mother Goose. They appear to be Italian geese. All dark featured, olive skinned, inherited from their father.Three boys clad in school uniform, private school, khakis and white polo shirts. The lone little sister is in pink tights and tutu'ed. They all gather, long-faced, around the cupcakes and pastry section, but Mother Goose is here to purchase expensive locally made olive oil and a wine bottle with a trendy label. By her approach to the labels and vague wondering stares she knows nothing of wine. Merlot or Pinot? need not be asked. What is the sweetest? and will this impress them? are the only questions.

But who am I to judge? I am the guy, sitting by himself, way too into his breakfast, staring around by himself. I am overly contemplative and writing. Before I came here, when I was hungry, I sorted through all my previous patronage to find a “cute and good” place to sit and eat and waste time before I went to the gym. I'm no different than the woman next to me, or next to and across from me. I've got too little to do and too little to care about. I actually spend most of my days trying to care about more. I'll finish my breakfast quickly now and move on to something else.

A How To Guide on Ripping Your Heart Out (so no one else will)

Welcome! Today is going to be a painful and interesting class, so let's dive right in! No pun intended...Well you see its a pun because you'll be plunging your hand into your own sternum in a matter of moments...No? Okaaaaaay!

So everyone stand over a tarp. This is to keep the blood from flowing all over and making a gross congealed mess. Good. Feet shoulder width apart. Deep breath in. Exhale....Good.

Step 1: Feel what is aching inside you.

Feel the itch.

Good. Think about it deeper.

Feel all that is pushing and pulling beneath the surface there

We are going to get at that tonight. Right now.

Feel the pain that emanates out that you can't get rid of

This pain is most often visualized or described as weight.

How much does your pain weigh? Clearly you can't lift it anymore because you're here.

Good. Feel it growing under your skin.

Now take your fingers, hold them together flat.

Some call this a knife hand. I think Karate or something.

Make them nice and strong and stiff.

Place them just to the left of the center of your chest.

Good.

Now scratch the first layer of skin back.

It stings. We know.

More is to come! Get excited people!

But this is hard too.

Dig.

Deeper. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Like a little mouse! Little little!

Nice.

Bring up one flap of that skin

Take it between your fingers and peel back.

Its a thin piece. So be careful not to break it.

And if you don't have a flap yet, take that nail, curve it down and try to slice.

And again, between the tips of your finger, that skin, and PULL!!

Not like a bandaid. Bad idea. Quick is bad here, people! Quick is bad.

Great, this is an open wound. Good Work.

Step 2: Now that you've done that, start burrowing a hole there.

You should feel the blood on your finger like the zest of a tangerine.

It might sting. A lot.

Keep going.

Keep scraping back. Scratch deeper.

There you go. Keep pushing your finger down, like a drill.

Circular, burrowing motions help. The muscle is easy tissue people. Rips like kleenex.

--Oh, we have a few falling behind...Or quitters. They are quitting. That's fine.

HEY DONT MIND THE PEOPLE LEAVING!

Just keep focused. They left because reaching into themselves is too hard.

It's not for everyone. Im proud of you. Keep going.

Step 3: Yes, this is just the third step!

About now you are going to come across something hard.

Like oak. Like an old branch.

This is your rib.

Don't be deceived, it no longer bares leaves.

So break it.

Reach one tiny finger behind it and begin to pull forward.

It will be strong at first, but as you pull harder its rough bark will snap off into small shingles. It will come off like loose pieces of dry wall falling from a hole.

Good.

Now two quick things:

1: Don't stop.

Keep pulling back.

Eventually it will snap

Underneath the frail pieces is the core.

This is stronger. Its fresh. Its the trunk of your bone.

The sap is underneath, so it is sticky and young.

This is the strength you didn't know you had.

This is what got you here. To this point. The strength in your bones.

Break it.

Go ahead.

2: Right now you're in a lot of pain.

Look at yourself--!!

--Or don't if you think you will pass out

But you should be in a lot of pain.

You've got your finger an inch deep in under your skin.

In your chest!!!!

You are leaking blood like a bad, old dam.

Your wrist has a literal stream coming down, staining your shirt.

Its like watching a ruptured juice box.

No! For God's sake don't pull your hand out!

Because if you do, you won't like what comes out.

So it's gonna hurt.

But you are following instructions well.

It hurts because you've punctured your self.

Im proud of you. You're going deeper into yourself than you ever had.

That is hard. Good job.

Step 4: That feeling of not breathing its gonna last a whole lot longer

Its like some one is stepping on your chest.

Smothering your diaphragm until it looks like a wasted, useless balloon.

Its gonna stay this way. Shriveled-like.

So lets keep going.

BY NOW you've definitely got to be about ready to break those suckers! YEAH!

So lets take a deep inhale; dig your fingers an inch deeper,

Wrap them better around those two or three ribs.

Get a good handful here.

Good. Inhale. Now on the exhale YANK as hard as you can.

Out and Upward.

Now upward gives it a better break and keeps it from the lungs.

AAAAAANNNND GO!

…

Okay. Okay. Good.

Now I see you've pulled your hand out and blood is literally pouring on the floor.

Sooo, I want you to quickly stick your hand back in there.

Quickly now.

Good.

And now you're no longer breathing really.

Your throat has closed itself. Because its pissed.

You've just broken your own ribs back. Your body is going to be mad.

We're gonna keep going.

Step 5: It looks like you're bleeding less. Which is good. We need to see this next part.

You're going to lift your sternum now. Yeah, that big bone in the middle.

Lift it like a car hood. Good. Also keep that flap of skin back.

Can you feel the air rushing in around inside you.

Your insides are actually feeling things now! EXCITING!

The air feels cool and crisp. Its swirling around your lungs.

Not in. But around it. Its nice, huh?

Now that, kid, that's breathing!

Step 6: Now reach in.

At this point you should be able to feel a small rhythmic tremor.

Yes.

That is your heart.

That is what your heart beat actually feels like.

Its probably sharper than you thought it would be. More abrupt even.

But it's really strong, isn't it? Yeah. That's it.

See, you're stronger than you thought.

Step 7: Now this next part stings.

You're probably tired of hearing me say that.

But push just a little deeper and find where the pulsing is coming from.

It shouldn't be too far.

Feel it?

Now feel how far the pulse goes.

What I mean is, find the distance the heart expands out after it contracts.

Good. Feel out where that is. Everyone's is different.

But find the width and stay just outside where the wall extends.

You might feel the Aorta bump up against the pads of your fingers.

It's like mini high-fives!

Step 8: Now once you have a feel for that, see if you can find the rhythm.

Find the contractions of your heart. Find its pace.

Now bring your hand, very lightly, very gently closer in around it.

Now pulse your hand with the pulse of your beating heart.

But be very careful, this is the thing that keeps you alive after all.

Feel that? Good.

Now it should feel like you are pumping your own heart.

You're sending blood out, streaming it through your arms and legs and lungs and brain.

Good.

You have your life in your hands now.

Step 9: Now listen closely.

I don't want you to pull it out or change it.

I know that is how the class was described, but listen to me and do as I say.

Don't move it. Don't adjust it. Don't play with it.

You are feeling its natural rhythm.

Just hold it.

Keep your hands clasped around it and feel that little monster move.

Hold it.

Its beautiful.

This is the thing that keeps you alive. What powers you everyday.

Do you feel how beautiful each slight movement is? The machinery of it?

The liveliness to it too though! Its like churning inside.

Do you feel how gorgeous the music it beats out as it drums inside you?

Do you feel the beauty of it? Do you hear it?

This is you. This is yours.

This is the beautiful muscle that is grinding away in the depths of you.

In the darkest places this little gem keeps going. Knowing its own worth beneath all this blood.

You've just now gotten to it.

It's pretty, isn't it?

..

..

..

Thats you.--

Feel it again.

..

..

..

Don't take it out. Don't change it. Don't do anything.

..

..

Just hold it.

..

Feel it move.

Know its rhythm.

Memorize it.

..

..

..

And let it keep going.

Keep It

Keep the faith, Child

All in all keep the faith

You'll see the struggle in your own bare bones

thirsting in the desert of your chest

dry sandy blood

gritting and teething its way through your veins

Child, keep the faith

When you can feel the hot water wanting to cleanse you---

WAIT.

Its not good water, Son.

Its not.

Its empty and keeps you coming back for more

Son, look closer at the water being offered

I dont care how cracked your lips

How dusty your tongue

or the salt stick of your skin

I dont care,

Look closer at the water child.

It will not save you.

That water, she is dangerous

She is offering to quench you

but not take the desert out of you

She is a fucking wavy mirage image, Son.

watch the heat rise off her bare shoulders

and full lips

Boy, those lips are wet, but not full of grace

Child, keep the faith in the desert inside you

It burns and scorches,

chars the walls of your heart

but Child, only you can turn that into something better

Not the water. Not her.

Careful Child.

Keep the faith

The sand between your toes will stay

and the grind of dirt in your teeth may be forever

But its better than thirst her water will inflict.

Keep the Faith, Boy.

Your desert is long and scarring.

Keep the faith as you walk

I dont care how burnt your feet

how red your face.

How dry the throat.

Keep the Faith.

Ill be there for you.

At a distance.

But dont drink the water, Boy.

Dont drink the water.

Where I Was

You never took my breath away

but I took my own to give to you.

Do you know what I did for you?

I did what only God can do

I parted my ribs,

grabbed all skinny skin and muscle off this ragged thing

tore at myself

ripped out lungs

pulled at bone till it cracked with a snap of my fingers

I pulled for you

and I gave you what only God really gives.

Do you know what I did for you over and over again?

Because this body can only handle so much snapping it turns out

I didnt know that.

But my body did.

So do you know what I did for you?

Because my left shoulder aches from carrying you

My fingers have no skin from wiping your leaking tears

My feet barely walk for the miles I chased after you

My lips crack from all the dry kisses we had

My stomach couldn't swallow all the frustration so Im doubled over

All of me shakes to the ground

disassembled on my accord

At most, I gave you my best

At least, my best even if it paraded my worst

I gave you a home

I gave you a heart

I gave you a way away from yourself …

So.

Well.

So, keep it all.

Just keep it.

I've got more some of me somewhere.

What He Meant.

“It's okay. No one knows what the hell they are doing”

This was his way of comforting her. He thought it was a great idea. By equating her position, her existential problem, with the rest of the world she would find company. And in company there is relief or comradeship. Or something that would at least help. Yes, this was a good idea.

“Horse shit! A ton of people know. You do. What bullshit! People know what they are doing”

“Not true”

“Well you fucking damn well seem like you do”

“Okay...Okay”

It was a not a great idea to comfort her this way. Though his philosophical speculation may have been accurate it was poor in counsel.

She was experiencing so much. Doubt dressed her everyday and a cloud, convoluted as it was, left her mismatched and she flapped about. Poor thing. Her situation grew more grave everyday. She buried herself further down, below self speculation. She didn't seem to be coming back.

He tried something else, “It turns out you can't do both, can you?”
“What?” she retorted

“You can't find clarity by adding more stuff. More clouds, I guess. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, I guess. Kind of. What do you mean?”

What did he mean? He asked himself. In his head. God knows if he said it aloud there might be hell to pay. What did he mean? He sat, thought the thought one more time--

then he walked out. He left her there, in her deepest need for relief. The fidgeting of her hands was like trying to ring the doubt from her clothes. Maybe she could squeeze hard enough, she could twist the cotton, make it bleed out all the feeling she had. Get rid of it, get rid of it, she thought. She was a mess. And what did he do? He left her. He took all his stuff, all his clouds and left...

Her hands stopped and she stared at the air he was just occupying only a few heartbeats earlier.

What? she thought.

In between the echo of his steps down the hall he thought, That's what I meant, right? I meant that more clouds means more confusion and when I see myself, at least in there, in that room, in that time and space, with that person I am a cloud. That is how I see myself to her. Or in relation to her, rather. So I am a cloud. That is what I meant. Right?

It was too late to question; the hallway no longer held the bouncing sound of his footsteps. He had released them to the city street, filled the sidewalk with his shoe clacking now.

Sure. That is what I mean. Sort of....God, she's beautiful.

She was a Dam

I didnt edit this! yikes.

----------

The way she unraveled was magical. The whole process worth watching. Truly a work of scything furry and fists clenched ready to punch whole troves of air. She, tooth and nail style, fought every bit of herself. –Why are you so strong? Why do you want this so badly? Leave me alone. Leave me alone. Leave me alone. She was strong. She could never see herself in this position. Ever. She knew better. Well, knew she could be better (was better) than slinking to the floor like a loose dress, wrinkles stacked on each other, offering the full give up. Her chest was bear-hugging itself. She couldn’t move her lungs past her ribs. All was heaving with spectacular confusion. The walls of her tiny bedroom pulsated, shuttering her eyeballs and causing her whole face to scrunch. Was this an actual physical pain? No. She had trained herself to fend for herself and push past sadness. For years she had accepted it all. She dealt with all. She was a grownup trouncing around with openness and patience and a stellar heart. No, no. This couldn’t be heartache. No way. Something else. Maybe heartburn! Hahahaha…The thought of her heart scorched and toasted by a spicy salsa or lightly burnt on the edges by a heavy meal was much more appealing. Not to mention the imagery lent itself to a few brief moments of distraction. Her legs now felt the pull of gravity. She fell to her lavender sheeted bed, the temperature matching the cool color tones of her comforter. What the hell? This was laughable, being this week. Okay, it wasn’t being this weak, but really feeling so deeply like this. And especially about something as silly and as small as this. How is it possible? The bed swallowed her now. Or she wanted it to. Take me away. Just for a bit. This is so…ridiculous.--

Trevor Maylor. 6th grade. That little prick. He tried kissing her once before and she avoided it. The toss of her head made a perfect hair slap in the face. But she could not avoid it this time. They were by the vending machines after school. She just wanted a Sprite. She didn't want to kiss him. So she told him. Loudly. With wild gestures and verbal ridicule that only a 12 year old girl with mountain sized self-dignity could produce. And what did he do? He grabbed her and kissed her anyway. His big wet lips, much bigger than hers, right on her face. Right smack dab in the middle of her mouth with force and gusto! It was warm and she felt the smash of faces. His little prick nose smooshing her adorable little one. Yes Yes. –

“no!”

And in an instant her first kiss was stolen by a little boy with more freckles than hair in his armpits. That was not the way she wanted it to be. No this way. Not so…gooey. Why? Why did he do that? Why would he think it was okay to steal what was not his? What a little prick! So little!

She actually ran away. One of the only times in her life she ran away and not into the trouble. But this was different. This was truly personal. This was deep. This was her first damn kiss and it was stripped away. She was so exposed and violated and destroyed. She heaved. She scraped the air around her, desperately trying to gather oxygen for her lungs. Her ribs, like fingers or tree roots, began to wrap themselves around her heart---

Was the blackness getting lighter? Is that possible? Her room was now more visible. Everything had a slight tint of blue. or Gray. Grayish blue and splatters of black. The only warm color was coming from the light post 20 feet outside her window. With the blinds open her face was lit in slats, giving her a mysterious and movie-like quality. She liked that. Maybe she could go sit out at the lamp post. Sit under it. Just to the left of it. And someone could see her from her window or from about 20 feet away and take a picture and say ‘that looks like a movie. Man, that girl must be troubled. She must be going through it’ She could be noticed like in a movie and all this heaviness would make sense. These dramatics would be justified by the scenery around her and the simple mood the misty light set. Her real loneliness exposed under a lamp post at night. How cool. Stop. Stop it.

This is a problem that can be felt and solved. She was certainly not a robot. She felt. Oh, did she feel. She had trained herself to feel. Feel all that passed in front of her. Strangely enough, she always felt, but never lost control. Never wanted to scream. She had nothing to scream about. She made sure she had nothing to scream about. There is nothing to scream about. She wasn’t losing it. No. She was feeling it. She was feeling the loss. She was feeling her loneliness. That is all. He didn’t mean that much. Really? He meant a lot. Don’t say otherwise, please. Okay, he did mean something, but not enough to cause a whole earthquake. She sat up and pressed her back against the wall her bed was positioned against. It cooled her whole body. She leaned harder, letting her skin stick---

What would he look like without hair? He’d still be cute. She told herself that he would still look really really cute. Oh no, maybe he would have a peanut shaped head. Or worse, it’d be pale with a giant divot. Could she still be attracted to a man without hair? He was supposed to have hair! that’s why God gave him so much of it. He obsessed over it. Hair everywhere! He’ll look good… Hopefully. Oh no, She’s going to call him peanut head or insult him or something. She'll be dating a peanut head. It's not bad! The first time he walked out of the bathroom without hair, he stood in the doorway, tremoring between laughter and tears and anger. He still looked good! a little off. But very good. But God, that was a huge peanut head---

She hung her head between her legs and slouched the slumpiest slouch. All her memories were falling right here, between her pajamas and on her bed. Oh my God! Her laugh filled the whole room. It cut through the darkness with a warm bright smoke. It echoed and danced off her open closet door and drummed back to her. That felt good. That laugh came from a good place in her body.

The boy she loved was slipping away. And no one had control. Not even him. A sickness. A disease. A growing wedge between him and the rest of the world. All was lonely. Just the mass in his lungs and his mind and the smallness of his body. Oh boy! What fun, he often thought. What a picture, she often thought. She was trying to comfort the inconsolable. For the next few months she would push, with full strength, towards the unobtainable. There was only loss at the end of this race, but she ran into it anyway--

Stop it. Just stop it. I can’t do this.

Can’t do what?

All this. The story telling. I feel like we are missing the point or something.

But this is what is going on. This room. This moment.

Exactly. One moment, all revolving around me. I don’t want that.

That’s kind of what you need.

No. No more crying in a room. No more beds eating me or London-in-the-fog-lamp-post scenes.

But that’s what’s happening.

But what about the story? How should I remember him?

As he was, of course.

Which way is that?

Broken. Small. Weak. A champion of all giving up.

What about before the inevitable?

Broad, sturdy, surprising, witty.

I can’t do both.

You have to. You absolutely have to.

I’ll never heal will I?

That’s too loaded of a question for me.

How? You’re my conscious. My overseer.

Yeah, but not your fortuneteller. I can only narrate.

Fine.

Fine.

Fine.

Fine.

Narrate away.

She gripped the sheets with white knuckles

Which actually looked gray because it was dark and all that other descriptive bullshit, right?

Excuse me?

Yeah. Why try to hide the obvious? I’m a broken dam. I’ve been letting you out in slow increments and now you are threatening to burst me open. Tear me beyond rebuilding. You won’t even leave me two bricks. Ill become a giant basin, holding all the troubles I’ve been stopping. So why describe it with so much dribble and staunchness?

Because I am more articulate than you and you can’t tell a proper story.

Bullshit I can’t.

You can’t.

Yes I can.

Now, right now, how do you feel?

Pissed off.

Wrong. You’re not angry.

Shit yes I am. You can’t tell me how I feel. I’m irate! You have no control over that one, narrator lady!

Can I say something?

Yes.

You’re right. You’re pissed. You’re furious. No God, no living person, no food, no friend, no parent, no one can ever tell you how you feel. Nor could ever, ever make you feel better. You are miserable. An absolute and positive disaster. You know how I know? Because I see you. I see past what everyone else sees. And I am not saying you are a mask or a cover up. No, you are genuine. Really genuine. But everything you have stockpiled behind those ribs is threatening to split out and splinter your body. Sweetie, you’re done for. Absolutely done for. Maybe you did it to yourself. I am not quite sure. But I do know that you are missing something. In all your togetherness and all your ambition and all your quest you are dying. And for the first time ever we are seeing this monster, this lack of something, come spewing out. You’re falling, honey. I can’t shake you and wake you up to it. I can only say that you are finally there. And I could tell you how to change it; lend you exactly what you needed to fix it. But this time, I don’t think it is about adding on. It’s not about putting the icing on top of the cake. Or whatever the hell that would be. I think it is about peeling away what’s on top. He’s gone. Well, going. And if you remove whatever business or personal wellness you have on top of your heart you might be able to deal with this. Take what’s inside and blindly give it up….

….

….

….

….

She sat there in silence. Puzzled.

Huh?

What?

I’m not sure if I got a single thing you said.

Hm. You may not get it.

Then help me.

No, no. I don’t think that is a good idea. I’d rather let you go on your own.

My own?

Yes.

Like how?

Like this--------------------------------->

The annoying second conscious left the room. Walked right out the door like it were a real person. It didn’t slam the door or anything. It just kind of softly closed it. That was a more lasting impact. To slam the door would have showed impatience or anger and would have lost the point. But instead, it was a gentle walk out, leaving a lot of room for correctness---damn.

She folded her legs. Indian style. Or criss-cross-apple-sauce or whatever was politically correct now. She didn’t really care either way. It was a way to sit. And from here she thought about him. Thought of all the fairytale moments. All the kisses on the forehead. All the bald head/penis jokes. She melted away into all the warm thoughts she had of his controlled and purposeful hands. Or his incessant need to open every door for her. The road trip to visit her family that consisted of lots of car radio musical ballads. She thought on all these things and her feelings of loneliness ran away. Far far away. Nowhere to be seen. So far that the small, flea like specks that were their figures had disappeared. Almost as if they never existed. All her troubles. All her pains of seeing him skinny and frail. All images she ever had of holding his hand. All plans she had secretly made. Or at least thought in her head. All the times she thought of him when he wasn’t around. All the times she was sad that he was leaving and there was no way in hell to stop it. All the times she watched him shave his head in the mirror or she shaved it for him. All moments spent in the grocery finding the right flowers that wouldn’t make him feel like a sensitive little girl, but he would still really enjoy. All the times they went out to dinner after he was diagnosed and every time they ordered the same drink because for some stupid reason they liked the same beer. Every chance they got to kiss when he was in the hospital. All the times he won her that stuffed animal, the one at the state fair, the one he got from tossing a softball in the titled basket and he said he was made for carnival games and she laughed and was so stupidly proud of her stuffed rhino and the man who had won it for her. All those times. All the attempts to play the right song at the right time because he loved music and the mood it set and she wanted to set it for him. All the finger playing across the table. All the jokes about her giant apple cheeks and how she had an apple orchard for a smile. All the compliments he ever gave her after he was sick, because, quite frankly, he had no reason to lie at that point. He became a truth teller. So all the beautiful and hurtful things that amazing man, that incredible and passionate and loving man every said to her. Every last painful memory that she could conjure in those few moments, all tiny, puny thoughts of his pain and her pain and all the pain that had swirled, linked, chained and bonded them together, all of their shared heartache, all of it slipped down the drain of her mind…all of it. All of it. Every drop of it…...

…..

…..

….

….

Do you want my help again?

Yes. Please, yes.

She cried. Right there. In her bed. She cried.

Just finish it. Finish it the way it should be and not the way I want.

I don’t know what that should be.

Yes, you do.

I don’t. I mean it.

End with me collapsing into the pile of rubble you always saw me as.

Yeah. I should. But you’re more than that, aren’t you?