wrapped in a blanket

it’s 11:44pm on a friday night.  i am alone and wrapped in a blanket.

i’ve given up facebook.  i’ve given up weed.  fuck i’ve even given up porn.

so now i’m here in my room at my home.  a home we made together.  she’s gone.

got a plane ticket to africa today.  will be overseas when i turn 35 next month.  i leave the states the day after your birthday.  i won’t be invited to your party.

really raw emotions.  i watch movies and sit by the fire but i can’t shake it, i can’t shake you out of my soul.  i try and remember the times i thought it wouldn’t work.  but i can’t.  i just miss you so bad.

fuck, how long is this gonna last?

i can’t eat.  lost my appetite, i think the not smoking weed has a lot to do with that.  couldn’t eat a single thing on new year’s day.

i meditate.  i pray.  go to yoga.  go to the gym.  take walks.

nobody calls.  nobody texts.  “hey, haven’t seen you for awhile, are you ok?”  nope.  i can’t take it personally or wallow in my self-pity.  it’s not like you’re the only person who has ever broken up with someone.  she’s a scared kitty.  and i’m the super villain.

got fresh laundry to fold.  i really like it here in my home but i can’t afford to stay here by myself and this place isn’t really meant for 2 people who aren’t romantically entangled.  i have no fucking idea what i am gonna do.  not with my life.  i know what i must do.  i am a filmmaker.  i make movies.  tell stories with cinema.  deep down i’m just a poet.  but regarding where i’m gonna live, where my next paying gig will come from, i have no clue.  it’s all gone.  evaporated in the midnight sky that was too hot to handle and too cold to hold.

nobody cares.  that’s not true.  you got family and friends who love you.  who feel bad that you are so sad.  i am.  that happiness, that laughter, fuck i haven’t laughed hard in so long.  i think she’s seeing standup 2nite, probably laughing her ass off surrounded by friends and drunk dudes giving her attention.

here i am.  wrapped in a blanket with my cozy star wars pants on (that she got me for christmas in 2012, she didn’t get me anything this year) and a tycho shirt (she got me that too).  fuck man.  what am i supposed to do?  just write dude.  you are a scribe.  a poet so deep in your bones and your spirit, these words can heal.  and you are healing.  what you are doing, this purge, this experiment, this radical life change is not gonna be easy.  you know that already.  but don’t give up.  keep at it.  work hard.  write whenever you need to, write all the time.  write poems, nonsense, screenplays, stories, novels, emails, texts whatever the fuck you gotta do.  you do it.  and you do it well.  and don’t ever forget you are love and you are loved.  god is great.

this is your life.  the length of your days.  day and night.  night and day.  i miss her.  i wanna hold her close.  her cheek in my hand.  those bones and my palms they fit so well together.  i wanna kiss her.  “can i kiss you passionately?”  i used to ask her that, and then i’d kiss her like clark gable.  i wanna make love to her again and again, and be fully present lose ourselves in each other.  i wanna go to sleep with her in my arms and wake up in the morning and make love again.  i was a fool.  fuck, i am a fool.  i’ve made so many mistakes throughout this existence.  you spoiled brat.  she called me that in a text.  she’s right.  i am.  but i’m kind and sweet and sensitive too but i fucked it all up.  been saying fuck a lot in fact.  FUCK!

it’s quiet.  no music.  no tv.  just the sound of fingers taping on keys.  you can write son.  you can always write.

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