Fossil of the Heart

Drifting, lonely… as an empty suitcase in a river.
I remember begging the question of “why?” 
Why did I drown my liver in Jefferson’s Ocean?
I whispered back that it’s because of a woman.
It’s always because of a woman.

I remember the little things,
like how much hair was on my face.
Your pale skin and pink cheeks in the morning,
our different shades of depression.
An ugly orange Schneider truck in October
with a skeleton girl on the grill
under that giant gray sky that stretched like a canopy
from one side of Reno to the other.
I remember my white knuckles and worn out Wolverines
watching the cars pass by
waiting to be picked up from that industrial, dust devil drop lot
where the air infects the lungs of hundreds
or even thousands of locals, but who cares. 
It’s not like we were going to stay, work, marry, and die
in the same depressing town we grew up in. 
That would require a little bit of stability.
See, there I go again.
All too human.
I slip, snowball, and smuggle in my sarcastic shit
like, “sTraNgE weather, aYe?”
waiting for you.
Scabs open and heal and reopen again
waiting for you.
I arm-wrestled the biggest and baddest trucker
at the Alamo Truck Stop in Sparks, Nevada
and won,
and he was easy for me
waiting for you.

But today, two years
and too many truths later,
I’ve found that you’re human
all too human, too.
Deep in my discovery;
with time, space, and love
long enough to settle into the sweetness of the soil;
long enough to fossilize this once-living-organism-of-ours into stone. 
The evidence for our love
trapped below the gray hairs on my head.
I can go back in time, like an archaeologist,
making the most of the bits and pieces of the invisible landscape,
the fossil of the heart.
I can see the sequences of things;
the things that were building up, 
things that were being created, 
things that were beginning to be redistributed, 
things that were being eroded away.

And now,
pulverized into raw information,
a quiet little clock called Decay
which started ticking
from the moment that death occurred
completes its natural course.
And it’s not bad
but beautiful
as the hand ticks away
until eventually,
even the clock of Decay runs out of time
waiting for you.

Music that influenced this post:

Black Flies by Ben Howard