The Real Reason

I imagine him staring out the foggy glass airplane window. I assume he got window seat, he only takes the best (I think this as I consider the ease with which he let me go). He did not come here to work, or to love me..no, those were the words attached to the actions, but they are not the truth. I imagine him reciting Blake to the soft, dim reflection of his weathered face, tired from the emotion of it all. "If the sun and the moon should doubt, they'd immediately go out." i murdered myself eight months later. and in the pane of glass on the airplane window he will always remember what i looked like the first time he saw me. and i wish that he could have said that it was at a bar in Iowa, playing a silky piano. i wish he could say that he immediately recognized what sustained me, not music, or poetry, or my appetite for suffering, but there, under all my drifting world of pain, he could maybe see my desire to see how much longer the black bitter tide could sustain me, how much longer i could live on nothing.