The Owl

I used to imagine that, if one were to see my soul through my eyes, there would be nothing; not emptiness, not sorrow, not dreams, but merely space, as if looking into a skull through the sockets of it’s hollow eyes. A roll of film on repeat, a broken record, a wailing car alarm. A child within a kid within a teenager within a number thats supposed to mean adulthood and maturity but means absolutely nothing when it comes to the -- nineteen. He and I, in pain. I had gone after him after he left. I knew him better than he gave me credit for. Perhaps he too was in a way dead, love his coffin, keeping him from his own life as he lay there in silence. His hair blowing ever-so-slightly in the wind.   He had left and didn’t expect me to find him. I always came looking for him. I buried my wet cheeks in his chest. We collided in the summer heart. We were torture. We could hardly breathe. Our love was dying. 

The owl would sit there every night, staring at him, with deep eye sockets and soul-less eyes. It was a constant reminder of everything he should not think about but could not shove out of his mind. They were the same and he wished he could be an owl too and fly away with this bird so that maybe there might be two happier souls. He wanted to reach out and hold it. It hid in the shadows, just like he did. This roll of film was black with white, black and white, and white with black. Every time he sees that photo he wishes I were dead. He never did believe in ghosts. 

The idea that a single facial expression could reveal how I feel about the complexity of this world is simply ludicrous. He always did appreciate my ability to say what I mean, articulate if you will. The red in the photograph felt like the blood that was growing cold in my veins every time he grabbed my hand, or turned my face to meet his expecting lips, or said those three words that I was forced to reciprocate. It was as if proclaiming his devotion once was not enough. Both times I didn’t know what to say. He wanted to make sure I knew it was coming. At the time I didn’t believe he was falling in love with me. It was silent and the glow from the street lamps bounced off the reflectors which burned spots in the corners of my vision. My wet cheeks were buried in his chest. Fear that the blackness that surrounds us would suck us in like a black hole’s gravitational force pulls entire planets into inexistence. The second time it was real. The sand between my toes sunk into itself as I hid with my arms around his neck. The ocean water was still dripping down my legs, and I could feel the sand in my hair. There was hesitation in the waves pulling me back in as I slowly climbed onto the shore. And theres not much different between having him then and not having him now. That time I died once but, you see, I’ve been dead all my life.