tremble

I stood before the bathroom mirror, eyes weary and haunted in the reflected light. The fan downs out the outside world as I go through motions piece by piece, the toothbrush, the mouthwash, fitted fasts and glutted feasts. My shoulders sag in sad decrepitude, the bunched and mottled skin strewn with gray and red, my beard shaggy and wild. I try not to meet my eyes, watching instead my unsteady hands troll the slow habituals, the toothpaste to the brush,  the spattered sink and the water’s vaguely hypnotic Coriolis ring a round the drain. It’s a too much day in a too little life, and even I am tired of seeing me this way. I hit the shower and cash out the day. 

The list is short, but it comes up often. The ritual and habits, the aching joints, the starveling heart. The dull repartee of life and art. The envy unto the perpetuity, the pangs and drangs and valentines. The love that moved on to something better, the growing gap between today and the all too familiar teeth of tomorrow. I avoid the prayers and recitations, the dozens loosed at the mention of your name. I’ll keep going, or so it seems. The light so bright it burns its negative across my vision, the day again all but out of hours. The thought of your bare shoulders, and that sacred spot upon your veiled nape. That sound as you tremble, and the memories again.

Now the dog is in the shower hiding from the fireworks. The fan is on, the door is open, the light still too bright to bear. The hallway’s shadows creased by spill on out as the dog twitches and growls upon the grimy plastic, the report of explosives impacting the stuccoed walls and window glass, music playing from my room. The on and off goes on and on, smoke from the altar, the flesh seared to the grill. Headlights sweep the living room walls as someone turns a corner. I lie upon the laundered bed, staring at the shelves and ceiling. I wrap my arms around a pillow, and curl into the empty in my arms. The words all finished, except inside my head.