The Longest Path Is Between Rooms

A short piece that travels from one time to another in search of a title.

     He misses her.  He misses the way that just a glance from her could give him goosebumps.  Could make each tiny hair stand on end.  He misses the way she could fill up his arms and make the goosebumps all go away.  Make everything bad go away.  All of his pain.  All of his loneliness.  All of his past transgressions gone for just a moment.  For one simple moment of peace when his wrists fit just right between the small of her back and the softness of sheets.  When the smell of her hair could make him drift off.  Drift away for maybe just five minutes more.  Until the press of her head on his chest and the flicker of an eyelash would bring him back to life.  Every morning like a dream he awoke to.  A wonderful dream to erase the blackness of sleep.  But all dreams end.  Even one as beautiful as this. 

     It used to be that his days were all too short and the nights dragged on too long.  Now the days crawl on.  One blends into another while the nights get ever shorter.  The nights are never long enough.  Not anymore.  Now he wishes for the comforts of sleep.  His reason for waking has gone.  Not far away.  Not too far for his eyes to see.  Not too far to hear her breath.  But it feels like a thousand miles.  Or a thousand years.  While she sleeps just a lifetime away. 

     All he has left is sleep.  Now that his dreams have returned to their rightful place on his pillow.  Trapped within the thin veil of blackest night.  His dreams have become no more than fleeting sensations.  Like seeing things out of the corners of his eyes.  Always there but never in focus.  The focus comes now in the time just before sliding down into sleep.  The time when he can see his thoughts most clearly.  The time when he can barely hear the door open and he can barely hear her slip inside to warm herself from the night.  When he can feel her crawl silently into his bed.  Feel her press up against him with her face against his neck and an arm across his side.  When she regrets the things she said.  The decisions she made.  When the regret turns her sobs into tears.  Each tear an apology.  His shoulders wet with I’m sorries. 

     These dreams would give him hope.  Hope that she could come back to him.  That they could begin again.  That she could love him.  But he has never really known love.  Not really.  He could never have known the severity of the words that would drive her away.  The crushing finality.  The way they could mean that the fun part had ended.  They way she would run from him.  Run to try to escape what she had heard.  What he had said.  As if leaving the room could somehow erase the memory.  As if leaving his clutch could somehow erase the thought.  Erase the time she had spent in his arms feeling his fingers run though her hair.  He could never had known that his softly whispered plea could birth such unease.  How could he?  His intentions had been as pure as fall's first snow.  Even though the truth was that he did not love her then.  Not yet.  But time and absence are insidious mates and they plant such ambitious seeds. 

     He would come to love her soon enough.  Love her so deeply that even her faults could inspire tears of joy.  This love would come.  He would know again the comforts of her skin against his.  Of her weight in his arms.  Of her crooked little smile seeking him out.  These things he would misread as signs of her love.  He did not understand the different depths of love.  How could he?  He had never really known love.  Not really. 

     Waking up, he stumbles out of the very same room to see her now beneath different sheets.  To see her remaining beneath the very same roof only to stumble out of a much different place.  She wakes alone in this new place.  Seems so out of place.  Now that the comfort of touch has been ousted by the torment of sight.  The strap of a tank top that slides off her shoulder.  The stray hairs left behind on her pillow.  Her bare leg slipping out from under the covers.  Everything out of touch.  Everything just out of reach.  She stirs as he stares.  He turns away as she purrs quietly from somewhere far away.  From somewhere lost in a dream. 

Reviews

[Alexander W. Quinn]

Great piece. Wonderful emotional impact. :)

[Doku]

Your writings always seem to amaze me, well done!