Evening Lounge

after the painting by Brent Lynch The humid nights are best and worst, best because the birds sing at two in the morning when you cannot get back into the other world, worst because it is the moist heat that makes the skin supple, makes you want to rub against someone else, a woman, and there is nothing but the long list of lost chances, things you could have said, perhaps the simple question of will you sleep with me so that it is not just you and this shell of a home, this place where it feels the walls are another layer of my skin, and that is neither best or worst. It is the holding of the dead stink, the memories that was over him, holding them back. It is the utter singleness of being the only person here, the way the thoughts think themselves down to accepting that this is really just me here wondering who I am, just me here wondering why I am awake at two, which trigger it was, knowing all the time all too well the way the war of life is connected to the nervous system of the world, the ganglia of our shared horrors, either mine so large, or so people tell me, and here it seems to be the membrane between the skin of my bones and the skin of this home, the absorbing shock of space that gives when the memories burn their way in or out of me. I would lie here wondering how to tell her I am wrestling with the angel, wrestling with memories in the crevices and cracks of my body, of how I feel right now, what it felt like then, in those times, and I am glad she is not here, and I wish she were here, and she has no name because this is some woman I do not know. I practice in the silence of my thoughts the different pitch and rhythm of how I might ask will you sleep with me, afraid of what to say should she say yes and this decade of my monkish life should lie open and I have to say why I am sitting on the edge of the bed, why I have woke her from the sweet smile I assume she has when I assume her horror is smaller than mine.