You’re just a blur, a smudge. Something that used to be. Faded wallpaper between cracked plaster. It’s green wallpaper and sometimes I see your face in it. I see your face in everything. When I dream, I dream about your shape, your figure. You are indiscernible. You are just a shape. There’s no definition, I can’t remember what you feel like. How can I sculpt your form in my mind if I can’t touch you with my hands?
People say that there’ll be another you. No. That’s not fair to say. Not another you, but another. I think that you were the only one. In time I might find another but their shape won’t fit the mould of you I’ve got in my head. It’s gone too far. Driving my car I look out of the window, sometimes because I want to crash, sometimes because the people I pass look like you, smudged, and blurred. I think that I’ll see you out of the window one day.
Or I’ll crash.
On balconies I think about jumping onto the heads of the people below me. They might be eating dinner. A bottle of wine on the table. I think about jumping onto them. The bottle of wine will slice open my neck and I’ll spray them with my arterial fluid. These thoughts come often, and thick. I can’t stop them coming. Even if I think of you. Even if I think of you I want to spray people with my arterial fluid. The red wine and the arterial fluid will soak into the black tablecloth.
I don’t remember ever having these thoughts when you were here. When we drank lots sometimes I’d think that it was a form of suicide, but we were in it together. The cigarettes and the alcohol. The incessant drinking. Was it because we were young, or because we wanted to die? Do we all want to die? Was it youth telling us that our time living like this was up, was it the youth in my head, a tiny, whimpering voice, telling me to stop it? To grow up and leave it alone?
When you went, you took a part of me into the next place. I don’t know if you’re waiting for me, but I know that without you, I’m just a blur, I’m just a smudge.