musings 6 - past pain

b. impact


***

Because I shrine your memory in stains 
of the living, sacred, universal quire;
because the gleam of unfamiliar tears
shines in bitter chalice of my hymn

***


It has been a long time, Zechs, Milliardo, whatever.

You would ask me why. Two reasons, a long time since I have seen you, and a long time since I have fallen in love with you. You would look at me like I said something heretical to our relationship or something, I'm sure.

I'm standing here at your grave. It's an empty hole, if there is one. Your headstone cost everything I had.

I haven't touched your money, though you left it to me.

God damn you.

Why didn't you tell me you were going to go to these mesures? Every morning I wake up and reach for you, as though you're lying next to me, and every damn morning you've not been there.

I haven't been to work for weeks.

Une is beginning to worry about me. She keeps sending Sally to my doorstep, but I never answer.

I suppose they wonder where I am.

If I'm not pretending to be asleep I'm here.

Relena offered to pay for your tombstone, but she never said anything until yesterday.

It's been over a month.

Thirty-seven days and four hours.

37 days and 4 hours, as I have written on my calendar, on my skin, on the paper I have in my coat.

37, 4, twelve...thirteen minutes, two...three..seconds...four...

I watched it all, just as I am watching... thirty seven... thirty eight... but I still can't believe it's real. I know you're alive, but I saw on my view screen when your suit blew up. But, but...you can't be dead...

You said you would never leave, or at least not until I told you to get out... I haven't said that, and damnit you live up to your promises. You always have, so you damn well better be keeping this one or I swear you'll be alone when you get to wherever you're going.

You're a fucking liar.

I can't believe you left me to this.


Mornings are the hardest, so I train then, for when you come back. I dress in my sweats and tank and spend the beginning of my time before breakfast beating up the hanging sack with my body.

I feel bad for it some times, like I lose a good friend in that bag. I kick the worn leather like it is your gut, punch it as though every inch of it is your skin, and the sheen of my sweat on it is the sunlight on your face, in your eyes. I am breaking it, and my own spirit at the same time.

But I can write now.

For some reason this tortured feeling inside of me brings forth more than memories. My pen rests on paper, it seems, and when I realize how long I've been sitting, I find pages of my own tight script beneath my fingers, and I trace the writing that reminds me of you.

Too soft to feel, as I reread what I have writen, and then harder as the conflict begins its swell and the story's plot begins to mean more than just the literary definitions, and finally, as the heat of the confrontation is blazing the pages are overcome with doubling imprints of letters.

The story tapers off after that. If it is a love story, which I barely write for my trembling thoughts are dry of love, the final choice is made between one thing and the other. If it is an action story, a character dies. If it is a...

Who cares?

My hands are shaking, and I have chest pains at times. The doctor says I have a palpitating heart beat. I'm on medication. The doctor says I must not get over excited until I am diagnosed. I hate computers. I really do.

You can't do anything for me just now, Zechs.

The doctor says that I need to replace whatever it is that I lost.

I'm planning on killing that doctor in the morning.

You're gone.

No wonder I am like this.

A knock on the door. I wrap the robe around me, so as to look a tad more decent in my spandex workout clothes.

I open the door and only find a bunch of roses and a note.

It's in your handwriting.

"If you're out there, you come here or I will shut the door on your face."

Meekly, if someone your size may be that way, you come to the door, bending down to lift the things. You hand them to me, and we just sort of stare at each other. You've only changed a little, and yet you seem skittish. Afraid I will reject you?

I could not do that, Milliardo. I could not hurt you so, without any prompting on your part, when you died, you prompted my rejection, and yet now you are back and so I do not know at all what to do with it. It being this emotion I have for you, and you alone, and only when you are with me, but also when you are away.

"Come in," I say, and take your hand to guide you past the doorstep.

Your body seems only a frail shadow of the noble warrior you once were, and it hurts to see you like this. You're the strong one, Milliardo, you're the one who keeps this life together for the two of us. 

And now you're more than a little laid up, so let me help you become strong, love, as you have for me so many times.

***

Time requires me to give account;
The account, if I would give it, requires time:
For he, withoug account, who lost such time,
How shall he, without time, give such account?

***

Still don't own Gundam Wing, double dern.

Don't own this poetry, triple dern.

Sorry it took this long to get the next part up, been a long hard process.