Two books

Wreckage. How long have I lived in the wreckage of my dreams? I breathed life into us, and you poked holes in me. I built you up, and you spit on my grave.

I can see myself walking down Poe Road in the dark, cigarette in mouth, backpack held loosely, and rain in my heart. There was so much I wanted to tell you, so much I HAD to tell you, but you just left me in the wreckage.

Those trees beyond the playground were so dark. I felt the night seep into me as I sat on those steps and wrote page after page of pain in my notebook. There was nothing to fear, as I had seen the worst life could do to me.

My life went off-script, and I followed it. Did I have a choice? I followed you, little girl, and you led me so far from home. I thought I'd never find my way back. But, here I am, alone again. Back to where it all began. Without you in my life, I breathe more easily. I never thought I'd say that. 

So much of my life has been spent sifting for meaning in the wreckage. So many hurts, so much sadness, so much rain. I know you always liked the rain, but it never treated me the same. They say you should never be with a woman who has more trouble than you. I see the wisdom of that now. They also say to date a redhead at least once in your life, but I doubt I'll do that. That's strangely patronizing, isn't it? Like redheads are a mythical creature. Well, maybe now's my chance. 

Those walks into the darkness of Bowling Green saved me. My notebooks -- my determined record-keeping -- they saved me. I was making sense of something so cruel. I should have left you, but that would have made it easy for you. I wouldn't let you get away from me until you saw what you were giving up. I didn't know it would take me so long to show you.

My notebook and my Bible went with me everywhere. I duct-taped my "punk rock" Bible to keep it from falling apart. Sadly, it's finally falling apart. I bought it and many others to give away to folks. I did that in high school. I took some to the nursing home. The rest found homes elsewhere. Those two books, my notebook and my Bible -- the sacred and profane -- cataloged my life. What beauty, what pain. What everlasting joy and insidious sadness. Oh, but those writings saved me. All of them.

You and I were like those two books. We had sacred moments -- moments unlike anything before or after -- and we had profane moments, too many of them. Our two books should be one, but to make sense of us, it will always be two. Some of our memories go in the good book, and the rest go in the bad book. 

I loved you, but that love couldn't save us. Stepping back, I can still see us huddled by the big picture window, rain smearing the lightning, and you on fire. There was something there, for sure, but you couldn't stand it. You had to kill it. You had to murder a beautiful thing.