She rested her head upon her arms,

Something she couldn’t have even named melted through.

The air grew lighter,

Softer,

Just like it always did.

But there it was,

The knowledge it wouldn’t endure long.

Eventually it would reappear.

Its form not always the same,

But often misunderstanding.

People often say what they assume she’ll want to hear,

But these words always taste wrong.

They smell of old men and fake roses,

Sticking to her tongue.

She’ll rinse it away with coffee,

And a cigarette to prod the guilt.

A turn of phrase,

Is spun again,

And the thoughts resculpted.

Her hands slide down to rest on thighs,

And a breath propelled,

Seems to make the air grow lighter,

Softer,

The way it always did.

Emptiness

Leonard’s favorite hobby occupied most of his afternoons and even a few mornings when the coffee wasn’t enough to wake him up. Standing there, hidden by his very lack of presence, he watched. This hobby was to him not an act of violence but curiosity; he carried no distaste or malice towards these women.

Once in his life, he would sit in parks watching all of the people wander by, men, women and children. But as he began to add stories on to the tableaus, he discovered that all of men ended up wearing his clothes and sharing only in Leonard’s minor victories and conflicts. He felt he knew them too well. The children always seem to sting him in a way he was never able to identify or push away. So he began to just watch the women.

Finding a nice open area that allowed his schedule to continue even when the weather was bad, was the last adjustment in a pattern that had been going on for more years now than Leonard cared to admit.

Once again, he stood and watched. Imagining the sordid and wanton lives they must lead, and moments later, reflecting on the devotion and respect they should demand, filled all of the spaces between the structured plans of his day.

Theres was a world that had no room for him in it. Even if his fantasies were wildly far from the truth, and their lives had no dark basements or sacred temples, there would still be no corner in their simple living rooms for him to sit in. There would be no space to watch television with them and share in the mundane struggles of their day. They air they breathed in this large bare room was the only thing he and these women would ever have in common.

When he was younger and had the chance to be bold, he seemed to know that nothing would stay that bright and blinding for long. A decision he didn’t even know he had made, favored curiosity for what he would never know and regret for missed opportunities over the nostalgic pain of something lost.

Later, at the usual time, he walked the ten blocks back to his building and nodding to his neighbors standing in the tobacco shop, he opened the door to the only home he had known for the last ten years since college. After making his usual grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup dinner he had every Thursday, he grabbed his tattered copy of Don Quixote and turned on the television. During the commercials, he read and otherwise he watched the same network programs that millions of other people, men and women watched alone.

My sadness is not loud or noble and it does not speak with the voice of a generation.

It is not whiny or shot through with a sense of entitlement so it does not reflect poorly on my generation.

My sadness if asked could walk a straight line and touch its nose.

It is not bossy and often simply follows my lead.

I have no cosmic failing that creates an unavoidable demise, so my sadness is not tragic.

It would rather wear a black strappy dress than a pirate shirt.

My sadness neither waxes nor wanes.

It does not ebb or flow.

Its favorite color is green.

My sadness recognizes no symbolism in this.

While it does not suffer from stage fright my sadness has no desire to perform.

It feels no need to tell me I am more or less handsome and smart than I am.

My sadness does not lie.