Diary of an Absence
June 10, 1992
I am constantly reaching for something beyond
my grasp, something that no longer exists. I wonder
whether or not I touch the undersides of the green
leaves lightened by sun — his eyes as I first
described them.
Occasionally I fish out a corroded
penny from the sharp-edged sculpture pool, stealing
wishes from their owners.
* * *
April 2, 1992
A grapevine, if given long enough to
grow, will weave itself around a lattice;
intricately, the vine will complement its
crosshatches. By removing the woodwork, the
vine will keep its twisted shapes, now
twining around space. The vine's
configuration will remind it of an absence.
April 14, 1992
The flashing neon phone has been calling. It
flickers my ex's name in Morse Code when
I am near. Its rhythm is uncannily
like our rhythms for eleven hours one night into
morning.
Perhaps if I were as compartmentalized
as he, I would lock the drawer with his abandoned
clothes and continue as a friend. The phone
would be relieved.
April 30, 1992
Miami frustrates me. I see
it typewritten on a vendor's envelope at
work, and I think of palm trees, beaches, and under
his leather jacket beneath the Spanish style
rooftops in the light of a full moon, kisses
with his cologne in my nostrils.
I wake up sometimes to that smell, but no
longer in his bedroom as he knocks on the window
while he is weeding.
May 31, 1992
The night he left ... he crawled out of
bed, saying, "If I stay any longer, I won't be
able to leave." He dressed, took his hangers,
then headed for the door. At the last instant,
he set his boxes down and came back to my
bedside. We kissed briefly; I was touched by his
consideration. Within a week, I knew that the
dresser would be mine.
* * *
June 11, 1992
The wings of the 757 weeped in rain, carried
me home. His earthy nature is too soft
for return landings.