My eyes were staring at the words laid on my lap, but my mind wandered to and wondered about the words on his hands. I took a look at him. The afternoon sun was directly shining at him, creating this silhouette of his figure. I couldn’t see him, but in a way, I hadn’t seen him clearer. He saw me staring and he smiled. I smiled back. He waved the piece of paper on his hand and said, “Almost done.” I nodded in agreement. And then he was scribbling again.
His hand was frantic, and his tongue was aggressively licking the corner of his mouth. He stopped. His feet were tapping the concrete floor as he bit the already gnawed end of his pen, judging his work. He erased a passage through angry strokes. His jaw clenched as he put the pen on his mouth again and bit harder. A moment passed and he smiled, a light bulb had practically lit up above his head. He wrote the words quickly, afraid to lose it. He didn’t lose a letter. His shoulders relaxed as he read his work. There was no longer the tapping of the feet or the gnawing of the pen. And as I watched him, I was filled with dread. My hands grew colder, my skin hotter. My heart plunged a little bit deeper to the abyss.
He looked at me and I forced a smile. “All done,” he said. “The last poem.” I nodded. My mouth was dry. I tried to stop my hand from shaking when I offered it to him. He walked to my side of the bed and reached the paper to me. He kissed my cheek and whispered, “Thank you.” The parchment on my hand was thin and light. I could feel the sweat from my palm oozing to the fibers of the paper. I rubbed my thumb against its edge, expecting a paper cut. I was terrified to look at what he had written. “Honey, are you okay?” he asked. I wiped a hand against my wet forehead, but a sweaty palm only worsened it. “Yes, I am,” I answered. I forced a smile at him and he gave a worried one in return. “Any-hoo,” he said with a sudden cheer. “I’ll let you read that last piece of my soul, the last Horcrux, if you will.” He laughed. I didn’t. “Are you really sure you’re okay?” he asked again. “Of course I am. I’m just feeling a looming headache.” He looked at me strangely. His eyes were worried, but also questioning. I wouldn’t believe myself, too. “Okay,” he finally said. “I’m going to smoke outside.”
His final look lingered, and then he walked towards the door. I called his name reflexively. He turned back and I didn’t know what to say. Why did I call him? “Yes?” he asked. There was still no answer from me. I knew I had to say something. I wondered what I looked like, then. I could feel the made-up headache becoming real. “I’m so proud of you, honey,” I finally spoke. The smile crept up on his face just like it always did. It became this broad and toothy grin. “Love you, hon,” he said. “Love you back,” I replied.
When he left the room, I felt a gasp and a cry forced its way out of my lungs. It came out as a loud whimper. Even though I was sitting down, I could feel the weakness on my legs and it was crawling its way up to my arms. I let my torso fell on the cushion and my head on his side of the bed. It smelt like him: his own distinct scent that always smelled sweet, laced with his expensive minty hair shampoo and the strong fabric conditioner. I stifled a sob coming up and felt the hot tears streaming from my eyes. The cries were loud and desperate. Those were the wails of a heartbroken animal, uninhibited by their own lack of self-awareness and uncensored in the vast room of nature.
When he told me that he would write a collection of poems a year ago, I was excited. He was a great poet, with some of his works being shared in various publications, both local and international. I, along with the world, had seen his marvel through the words typed on glossy pages. On the course of our two-year long relationship, I had only read the pieces published by the magazines. He kept some poems to himself and these were those he didn’t retype. He filed these first drafts of poetry in an envelope and hid it from the rest of the world. I was part of the rest of the world. I never asked about it as I understood he valued his privacy. And he never talked about it. So imagine my delight when he asked me to proofread the poems he would write for the collection. I was ecstatic. Finally, I thought. He would finally let me in his private little world that he kept hidden from the rest of us. I was happy.
“What would you write about?” I asked him. “Ghosts,” he said. I nodded. He liked writing about the supernatural—religious deities, gods and goddesses, even mythological monsters. All his published poems were stories about these beings, rewritten with his own signature novelty. But by the end, the tales would actually be about something else, something more profound and more grounded. He wrote this one piece about Adam and Eve and the Garden of Eden. But instead of the snake, the Devil was a beautiful man to whom Adam found himself captivated to. It was Adam who ate the Fruit and the Devil’s lips. Eve realized what Adam did so she vouched for him, but the Almighty Being saw everything and they were banished. In the end though, it wasn’t just a retelling of Adam and Eve; it was about the feelings of oppression the pink community felt from the Church. I remembered that one being controversial.
He wrote the first poem in a week. He was usually detached when he was working, but during that week, he was also angry. He would have fits of rage while writing and his mood swings would be terrible. I almost got darted in the face by a pen he threw while working. Although, when he finally finished that first piece, he was beyond ecstasy. He ran to me with the draft on his hand, like a grade-school kid eager to show his Mom his first A. He was grinning widely. I grabbed the paper and he stood in front of me, watching, expecting, and waiting. As I read the first piece, I hated him.
The tears were drying up when he returned to the room. His smile turned to a frowned concern. He rushed to my head and consoled me. I noticed that the paper where he had written his last piece was still held between my fingers. It was now probably soaked. I did not need to read it because I already knew that it would be fantastic. I also knew that it would be about a bespectacled ghost, or a seemingly British spirit who spelled words with an extra letter U on the Ouija board, or just another aggressive poltergeist that haunted his house. I was not that naïve to not see that every poem he wrote for the collection was about all the men in his life. He had written about his ghosts. I knew that right when I read the first poem. The pieces were intimate and some were vulgar. It was bad enough to read about how he fucked his ex, but I had to pretend that I liked and enjoyed it. I rationalized. Those were already his exes, goddamnit! But still, every poem and every line was a sharp pang of pain to my chest. I was traumatized and I grew terrified. Sometimes I would pretend to had read his latest work but he would know that I hadn’t. He knew me that well. And I thought I really knew him.
He kept calling my name and asking what was wrong but I was silent. I felt hollow, as if every organ inside me was gone. My heart had fallen completely down the abyss. My lungs had already burst with sobs. My stomach had been pulled down by that huge, heavy rock that grew inside it. And the love of my life, the poet, had no idea.
He sat down on the floor and brushed his fingers through my hair. He knew I loved that. He stopped talking and just brushed. We were silent for a long time, apart from the occasional sounds of shifting in his spot. When I finally found the words, I surprised even myself when I had said it with finality: “I think we should break up.” The movement on my hair stopped and the shifting of his legs ceased. He was still, but his heavy breathing betrayed the stillness. “What?” he said. He sounded hurt, angry, surprised, desperate, and incredulous. His emotions were unrestrained.
“Look at me,” he begged. “Talk to me, please.” He was crying. His voice was wet and warped because of the rush of tears. He stood up and walked to the other side of the bed where my legs were. He looked at me and I stared back. He looked distorted from the position of my head. His face was tinted red. As he wiped the tears, more flowed in rebel. It hurt me to see him like this. I couldn’t look at him, but I had to. I forced myself to sit upright and moved closer to the edge of the bed. I grabbed both his hands and kissed them. These magical hands that had written remarkable poems and that had touched me in the dark and in the light. I was going to miss these hands. I held it tightly and looked at him. I was smiling. “You are the love of my life,” I said. “You are bewitching and beautiful, but—” I could hear my voice breaking and I could feel the tears rushing. “—But,” I croaked. “You had hurt me, love, just when I thought that you could never hurt me.” His voice was worse when he spoke. “What did I do?” he begged. I wiped the tears and tried to smile again. “You didn’t do anything. You just loved your ghosts too much.” I could see something shifted on his face. He was confused and trying to make sense of what I just said. Unlike him, I was already sure. “Maybe now, I could be your ghost. And maybe then, you could love me as fiercely.”
I pressed his hands against my lips again but this time, I let it lingered.
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