Published: September 15, 2009
You can appear in the unlikeliest of places. It should be a familiar sight to me now, but I am always taken off guard. I often think I see you in the shadow at the back of a room, slipping out of view. I tell myself not to look. There is nothing but dust and darkness where I think you have been. If only it were just there that I saw you then I could ignore it.
I used to see you as I drew the curtain in the shower. Only a glimpse, but enough to make me wrench it back in hope and fear that you really were there. But no, nothing, still alone. I nearly always pretend I dont see you there anymore, but it calls for short, sharp showers when I cannot help but believe that you are behind the curtain. I dont always do it though. Sometimes when I hear the floorboards creek outside the bedroom door, I creep out of bed and call to you. I am on the landing saying your name, expecting something; expecting nothing.
In all honesty, it scares me. Is this normal? Sometimes, I lose all sanity. No man can say he is sane when, walking in the park, he sees his wifes face in the branches of a tree, so he climbs in them just to imagine an embrace again. When I come to, as if out of a melancholy trance, I am embarrassed and shaken. It happens more often than I care to admit. I run up to women in the street, gripping them by the shoulders and searching their eyes for any semblance of you, besides the way they laughed a minute ago. They think I am insane.
When I go home and serve my bachelors supper, I close my eyes to your seat at the dinner table. I do not see you there. I do not feel your knee rub against mine. I wish I didnt. It is cruel, to have lost half of myself only to be reminded of it day in, day out. Why must you haunt me so? I am but a broken man without you.