Departure

This post contains adult themes.

I can already see the outcomes of my departure from your heart.

I have left my keys on the bench inside the front door and when you come in, you will step inside and take off your coat. You will hang it on the hook behind the door and you will drop your keys on the bench next to mine, as they always are when you get home. I would be in the kitchen, finishing the meal I have prepared for you, but today there is silence. At first you will not notice, because you pick up the mail that I have left for you, and you will sift through it until you find something of interest, perhaps an overdue bill. Then you will open it and begin, head down, as you walk into the kitchen.

"Honey, I thought we paid this bill." And then you will notice the absence, you will take in the nothingness of me and your heart will begin to feel void of love. You will falter with mind racing and begin an irrational line of thinking. "Honey, where are you?" In an instant the logic and natural opinions of habit will start to line your mind.

She has just gone out, she will be back soon.

But then you remember the keys and all of a sudden a lump in your throat will be forming and your chest will tighten and you will pace from room to room in search of me, opening and closing doors, calling my name and apologising to the silence so that it might break into my voice. You will slide open the back door and step out; take a deep breath and stare at the sky, questioning, searching for an answer. You feel the breeze on your face. The moment's peace will bring clarity, assurance and sensibilities - you will realise that I have forgotten my keys, that I have just stepped out, that there must have been an emergency.

But to satisfy the questioning, even though it could not possibly be true, you have to check the wardrobe, to see my rows of clothes hanging comfortably next to yours, the shoes scattered upon the floor and my selection of perfume crowding out the shelf. Breathing deeply, so confident in logic that you can manage a smile at yourself, you will step inside. You step across the lounge carpet, down the hall and into our room, our gorgeous love filled room where so many times I have lain naked with you between the sheets.

You step up to the wardrobe and can see yourself reflected in the mirror which we used so many times to the advantage of our lovemaking, and in a flicker of insanity you turn and check the bed, to see that I am not laying silent in sleep, but there is nothing. You turn back, angered at your own irrational hopefulness and slide open the wardrobe door and inside I am gone.

The softness of me has escaped you. The rectangular hollow of space, an unwanted void, is haunting your mind and chasing your heart. You will pause for breath, then suddenly inhale and in that breath is the scent of a thousand days of me, the soft scent of my perfume, my moisturiser, my clothes - the intensity of post-sex aroma is drowning out your lungs and choking you. Then inside you see it, and you learn to breathe again. Hanging to the far left, near where your clothes begin is a solitary hanger, and upon it sits a piece of me, a piece of you, a piece of us. It is a black satin camisole, with lace trim about the edges and the intense memory of our first time together. You will feel the tears rising within and reach for the softness of love and press your face to it, drowning the absence of me in the strong aroma. Memories will flood your mind. Of my laughter at us, lying together, embraced in love, soft kisses upon my shoulders and tenderness upon my breast. We smiled at each other, and knew it was real.

And now I am gone. Not only physically, for I have been gone for years. Now your heart has accepted the void, the pain and true love torn away, for you know it was real and that our love was infinite and tender and there lies the pain, the suffocation in realisation. The choking of eternal absence from me. You kneel and the tears begin unstoppable, and you rest your upper body upon the bed and cannot breath but you will not care. You only want my warm embrace, the softness of my hair upon your shoulders and a cheek pressed against your own. You will give anything at this moment to have me, to hear my voice, to listen to those tender words "Honey, it's OK. I love you." But you know it isn't true.

That I am well and truly gone.

Copyright © Aurian 2002