I let the sunshine play between my fingers.  It slides up and down, in and out.  My hand is a playground for young drops of light.  I let the tears roll onto my hands and join the party.  The light and the tears shatter upon one another and explode and melt into each other creating a kaleidoscopic rave of abstract, iridescent emotions all in the palm of my hand.  I watch the show pretending I cannot hear your eyes upon my flesh.  I pretend you cannot smell me with your eyes, my cold nakedness in the stark, sterile light.  I pretend and I want you to pretend that you care.  You pretend that I am not there, and I pretend we have chance.  No wonder the land of make believe does not exist.  No one’s land would ever be the same  and infinity does not have enough room to support all the wishes and hopes and has-beens and what-ifs and should, would, and could haves.

So here in the world that we like or do not like to call reality you stand and I lay.  After I have lost interest in the dance party in my hand I wonder if in a parallel world would you be laying and would I be standing.  Would I want you to disappear and you would want me here?  I hear your progressive footsteps and I hope soon I will hear your hands touching my back.  I hear the closet light come on and your feet are in there.  I wish that your feet were the only thing in there and the rest of you came to love me.  But you and your damned feet are still attached.  How disappointing.

And then I wail.  I find everything that my soul has hid beneath the stairs and in the basement and the farthest part of the closet.  I pull it all out and purge my soul.  I push all the dirty pain out of my mouth.  If I was not a bit deaf its sound would scare me.  But it no longer scares you.  You stand in the closet hanging up the $50 shirts and the $75 shirts and $250 jackets as I throw up the $.50 depression of the day.  You just don’t love me in my head.  How do you feel in yours?

Amazingly as I scream and scream I don’t want to.  Not because I do not want to feel pain but because I know that it will do no good.  I scream behind silent glass.  You hang shirts in the closet and hum in your head.  You hum so loudly and so hard there is no room for me or your feelings towards me in your head.  Note after imaginary note, you pretend to know a song that has yet to be written because it is better than knowing the pain you did make. 

Humming and screaming.  How many years has it been now?  If could measure it in the notes and pitches we produced it would be the longest opera.  People would talk of it for years, the way the neighbors talk of us now.  The longest opera, so much pain and anger and resentment.  Enough tears to fill Mars’s canyon and enough rage to control the people.  What would they say?  What do they say?  Do they know the urgency I needed you to love me?  Do they care or think I am crazy like you do?  But the things I know they don’t know and nor do you is the way you looked in the ocean colored darkness at dawn with dreams fluttering above your head and across your face.  The way your eyes crinkled with tears in them as you laughed.  You could never see that nor can they because no one else saw you with their heart.  No one but me and no one but me hurts when that smile fades and those tears become real. 

I hate real.  What is real but everything that is not a fantasy?  Fuck real and its icy light that wake me from a dream where everything is it’s right place.  One would think that right would be real but right seems so far removed from real that right becomes wrong.  What cruel in cahoots real and right are.  One I want and one I have.  I am always chasing the one that is never there.  The one that is not real.  That is the one I want.  It is just like you.

I remove myself from the wailing and the bed just in time to join myself in a frantic attack on the wall.  Throwing everything that probably won’t break anything but will make a loud, loud noise to get you to look at me.  I hate when I am wrong.  I hate when something breaks, and I hate when you don’t look at me.  I hate everyday, but everyday is just a scapegoat ‘cause the day has nothing to do with my hate.  The days are virginal and beautiful.  Skies and birds and sunshine and all that bullshit decorate the world for people’s pleasure.  The day is trying but I hate it anyway ‘cause I hate you and you are the biggest part of my day.  You suck!