Where’s my heart? Oh. There it is…under your black work boot. Was it good for you? Want a cigarette? I think I’ll have one. Smoke curling, snaking up through the room…air shifts, smoky cigarette tears, you shift, I shift, and the world is very still. It’s cold, but you did me a favor…leave my heart under your boot, I don’t need it…the smell of you on my clothes, footprints leaving size ten prints on the carpet, snowflakes on your eyelashes, icicles in my chest, a long puff before the cigarette gets snuffed. Leave.
Please don’t call. I know you want to, I see that you still try, but I’ve vacuumed your footprints away. But, I want… Too late, the Hoover has sucked you up…up, up and away…ice, ice baby. You did me a favor. Thump, thump…leave it there, let it rest and stay safe from black work boots.
Dancing with myself. Damn. I’m Ginger Rogers…gliding across the kitchen floor, bathrobe flying around and around in circles, arms reaching up, arcing and flowing…wings of angels. Damn. I’m beautiful. No, no, no for God’s sake. None of that sticky sweet shit right now. I want some of those apple bottom jeans and boots with the fur...back out, you better tap out…you like it my way and I know it, so let’s do it, do it real good…and the bathrobe falls to the floor. Goodbye Ginger, hello devil woman dancing in her mismatched underwear with icicles in her chest and a man in the Hoover.
Shut up and let me go…the music plays on and on. Look at that mechanical thumping on the floor…vibrations climb the walls, a telephone rings. Smoke meanders from a cigarette hanging limp between lips, it stinks, stings my eyes…staring out the window, clouds fart pathetic puffs of snow flurries. Ice forms, glistens, and an emptiness aches inside while birds shake their feathers and cling to tree limbs. I don’t care. An ash drops on the floor, a train in the distance…the wind carries snow farts through the air. Love me some, hurt me once or twice, I don’t care, but that’s enough. Ringing…stop already, can’t you see I’m thinking? Shut up and let me go.
So you’re out there, probably thinking that my mind is saturated with your smile, that my clothes crave your smell, and my ears stay ready for your voice. Good. I did good when you were here and my heart was under your boot...thoughtful nods, faint smiles, timed giggles, a little laughter, repeating a few of your words followed by…ah, yes, very clever…just so you wouldn’t notice I was sleeping with my eyes open. Standing outside, you turned before you left, and I smiled at you while snowflakes filled your eyelashes. I almost stopped not feeling.
Dinner? No, I can’t. You see, right now I only feast on memories of you; I eat them one by one, then eliminate them--flush them down the shitter. What does your face look like? I don’t remember now, but the memory of it tasted good…like chicken. What did you say before you left, when you were smiling at me with snowflakes in your eyelashes thinking you would come back? I ate that too…not so tasty, it gave me heartburn. Your smell? That was washed out with a couple beers, then I peed for a long time and the release was slow and magnificent…yes, going down, down...smooth and steady, warm and wicked, eyes closed…relief cradled me in a final welcomed slump. Your favorite side dish has been removed from the menu.
Yes, continue to think that my clothes crave your smell, that my ears want to hear you...I'm full...satisfied in knowing the moment will come when you see and realize I’m not here, and you’ll know what my eyes said to you on that day: Shut up and let me go.
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