Velveteen

The tears at the door. The heart beating in the throat. The one last long look. And all the emotions that did not find themselves attached to words suddenly seem to wrap around inside each other, in a hurricane of the fragmented lack of representation; the wind of mourning, and the gale force of loss.

I was an uncommonly warm winter day that could not remain, and the secondary line of players who occasionally get to play. Even though you said that I was special, still you did not stay. And unlike in the movies, after the click of door was finally shut and then was felt the palpable pause, my heart was breaking, and you did not come back, leaving me with no idea, of if you will stay that way. Perhaps the mystery of discovering me now fades into a familiarity which is soon to be folded next to old t-shirts, and cheap souvenirs. Maybe the Skin Horse was wrong.

The paint is dry now, and as I peer upon the canvas of all that we have colored, the rich tones I see appear to you in blurry shades of grey. The rabbit whose eyes are worn away; a weathered pair of shoes or a finish long since lost its shine. You have broken me in, taken me as far as I could go, and have now just put me away.

The questions that are not asked, for fear of answers, crash into the pit of my stomach with the wicked wondering of the “She” that is not me, and memories turn into unbearable imagination of the one that is where I want to be…the who of the she beside you now; the who of the she that is not me. A brand new toy; a rocking horse that does not creak, a new rabbit whose fur is fresh and soft, and the newness of a book into which you’ve only peaked. My knees are weak.

Everyone needs the sustenance of a good meal – and then craves dessert. I am a good bottle of wine drunk to the last drop; a grape plucked from the vine a little too soon. Maybe all I could give you was supper. Maybe she is sweeter, and so maybe you will love her.