Of love I have none left to give, to myself or another. All that remains is a quiet and dusty vacancy. I have been waiting for some other feeling, like anger, sadness, or melancholy. Like pride, lust, or even indignation, to take up residence inside of me where something was, and fill the void as they have so many times before. But there is nothing now, only quiet and a dusty vacancy. No new seed has taken root to bloom when I least suspect. No acid flows through my wind pipe and intestines, waiting for the first pretty face or undeserving happiness to be spewed and ruined. There is only a space now, an unfurnished room waiting to be let sans the Trulia or Craigslist ad.

1BR 4 Lease, 13th Flr walk Up, no Eelevator and terible Neighborhood (the Liver is an Asshole) Pets & smokers welcome. No vegans.

Loneliness has become a stranger I once knew well but can't remember, whose name rings a bell but face I can't bring to detail. And stranger still is that I can't compare such a vague sensation to a phantom limb. I am not a soldier and while there is something inherently missing, its absence, is more known than felt.

It has more in common with coming home and not finding your favorite coffee mug where you've always left it. Not bothering to look because, who has the time? You're late for work and it has to be around here somewhere. It disappears then and revisits you sitting in the break room with someone mentioning an espresso, or while daydreaming at the ceiling and suddenly remembering how long you haven't seen it; weeks or months, and in some cases even years. And like an old friend you begin feeling oddly wistful towards what you can barely recall or define in face or value.

You swear that this time you'll find it, but inevitably you forget again. On the train or interrupted by what a friend says, in a long drive home between that weird time you actually put on the radio and got caught up wondering how your mother's been. Your sister calls and spends an hour on the phone and you don't even have (domestic product goes here) at home so a trip to the supermarket turns into 2 years later staring at a tin cup realizing whatever the fuck you've been using in the meantime has been working just fine. 

So who cares.

It's only a mug.

Perhaps I'm older and a little withered now, and the empty space I feel is not love gone, but where my youth used to reside. Nostalgia is a dirty liar, but being young I know is to be the sky- far, endless, off-handed and amazing; infinite in reach and possibilities. An open window could mean anything, an entrance or invitation to imagine what happens in an endless row of apartments. Then time takes us to his pocket where we age and only see a draft. We turn cold, but at the same time, solid. Our denied fantasies turning into tangible means - a base and footing like the concrete pavements we used to dream on but no longer can. If only some lie or rocket could propel us backward so that we could hope again, so we could reach for stars along the sidewalk. Where the bags of our hearts lay littered with eviction notices- all that remains of quiet and dusty vacancies. For lease sign hanging on a snapping twig and we dare to think that maybe, just maybe...we can turn a feeling into a home.

Published by Noel Edwards