August 1, 2007
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A few nights ago, I dreamt that you came back to us. You stood on the doorstep and, speechless, I put my arms around your neck and held you close. I cried for everything that I’d lost when you left, and I wondered if you knew how shitty and fucked up it was, but at the same time, I was just so glad to see you again that tears of happiness and relief blinded me.
The respite between cigarettes gets smaller, and empty beer bottles on my desk fill with ash and stubs of cancer sticks. I hate how my life has become. And even though people tell me that it could be worse, that I could be missing a leg or an eye or be covered in scabs and burns or dying, a happy maniacal anger sometimes pushes the numbness out, and I want to break everything breakable in my house,
because I could be happy if he would only let me love him
or at least, if you had told me the truth almost 4 years ago, if you had been honest, Mickey, when I asked you if Beau was a good guy – someone decent who would never break my heart and I asked you with words uncolored, with motives unhidden, “Should I stay with him? Will he be strong and noble and gift me with a family of my own?” and you weighed words in your head, letting them fall in an order that could have been the first footsteps of a great adventure, and said “Yes. He is a good man.”
I miss you, Mickey, because you were a wonderful constant in my life until you left.
