562 Wyoming Ave, or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love My Mood Disorder, Pt. II

by dbdevilliers

Now I shall spy on beauty as none has
spied on it yet. Now I shall speak of love
as none have before. I shall speak of pain
reflected in the rear-view, drawing blood
from the neck to precipitate the rush,
the icy twinge at the back of the throat.
Now I shall show you pain beyond compare—
stare into my bloodshot eyes and I’ll stare
into yours and our irises blacken
muscles of the jawline clench and teeth crack.
Sunrise sunset several sudden years pass.
At some point, you left. Leaves died on the trees.
There was an equinox. The moon waned small.
It felt like the darkest night of the fall.
But it was four PM and sunny skies
belied the black intention.
Now I shall speak of hypothermia
now I shall speak of shock paddles and I
shall speak of cardio-pulmonary
resuscitation and ambulance rides
no one remembers. Psychiatric wards,
puzzled MDs, resilient nurses, doors
with knobs equipped with conical steel shrouds
to shrug off any permanent attempts
at checking out. There was another man
who told me late one night that he would die
by his own hand. Just a matter of time.
Maybe he did. I don’t recall his name.
I met his family. Nice enough people.
Sometimes there’s just no reason for it all.
There was another—my roommate named Gabe.
His I remember. One evening we sang
a punk song, top of our lungs, down the hall.
A little brightness til they made us stop.
He hanged himself from a tree that next fall.
Sometimes there’s just no reason for it all.

Now I shall spy on beauty as none has
conceived before. Nearly a decade’s passed.
I sit here with a pencil, yet again
residing in an institution and
I contemplate the swift passage of sand
right through the spindly hourglass of my hand.
It frequently feels like nothing has changed.
Until we wake up in a different state
three inches shorter, half a century gone
a couple kids with kids and rulered lawns
a liver-spotted visage, pitted, loose
arthritic fingers fumbling at the noose
they never tied. The end result belied
our best intentions. Maybe someone cried.
I did. I still do. Maybe always will.
I love you. I love you. I just have to.
When you’re decades gone, I hope I still do.
******* I knew you. Maybe you knew
me too. It’s hard to say. Can anyone
know anyone at all? I surely hope
perhaps against all hope that this is true.
And at least I know to whom I shall speak
in graphite silence. At least I know who
can see my screaming soul through time and space
and ghostly rest your head against my arm
and whisper back to me words I once knew
and I’ll fade.
Sometimes there’s just no reason for it all
but sometimes…