Two worms searching for life. I wasn’t the right kind of worm for him.
More tears, more sadness, more tired. Exhaustion takes over and unconsciousness ensues.
Out of the darkness emerges a scene out of a play. This is truth… let me act out my scene of love and fear and apology. I will pretend to smile for you and I will pretend to be your friend when I am deeply wounded. I am carrying a battered iPod, nothing special but for some reason of utmost importance to me. It sits trembling and precariously balanced atop a pile of very important gifts of mine that I refuse to put down and which I hold onto tightly. They are books, they are love, they are my beliefs in a tangible form. I want to give that iPod to you but I don’t. I carry it with me silently, fearfully, ashamed but always conscious of it. We speak and it’s trivial. My heart flutters and cries. What was once a road between us is now a chasm. I do not touch you. What’s more, you do not try.
Your friends come to take you away. A drive by killing. A look of apology on your face, but deep down, you’re grateful to escape. The blue sedan is gone, and with it… any hope of giving you this iPod. This simple, battered and worn iPod. It’s yours, really… but you don’t know it, don’t remember it, or don’t want it and it kills me that you’ve forgotten.
In the chaos that ensues, your leaving, my reckless grief… the iPod drops from the top of this mountain of priceless, nameless books and belongings of mine that have been cradled in my arms this whole time. I am panicked. I am sad. I am crying. Again. I am searching for my lost and well-loved iPod. It’s my old friend. It’s everything to me. It was supposed to be yours. On my hands and knees, I crawl through thick and thin, and somehow this iPod search has become something of a needle in a haystack.
Then I am hidden underneath what seems to be a bed, still searching for my lost iPod so that I can cradle and love and what’s more, mourn my love for you. To my surprise, you know I am there and you call out to me, “I want to hook you up with my friend. I got an email the other day, it says: My boyfriend is coming to the States for awhile for work.” Apparently, I cannot recall how, things have become shaky, uncertain for them. He is a Japanese underwear model.
At this moment, in the final surge of grief and sadness I am emotionally capable of, I can only muster a silent plea, I am not ready to date. Not unless it’s you. But then, I hesitate. I don’t know if I mean that anymore. But it’s done. The final stab, the last time you get to tear me apart. My confusion, my tears, my sadness remains… and that iPod is still lost to me.
