The lost nights

It’s been long since I’ve talked to B., heard from B., knew where he was, even. He does this thing where he drops off the face of the earth, dissolves any presence he’s created, even in the world of constant and profuse technology.

I still can’t find him.

I know this is because he doesn’t want to be found, possibly because he knows how I’ll search for him (exactly what way, full birth name, birth certificate in another country), and he has thrown up roadblocks.

I wished I could say it was a game this time, a game just like the last several times he’s done this, but I don’t know anymore. The last few times, I wasn’t sure if it had been a game anymore or not, and then I’d find him. I’d find him accidentally, almost; a fluke, a random chance that may not have been so random at all, but like he sensed I was giving up. He could tell I was getting tired, and then I’d get a sign.

But this time it might be different. It is the longest it’s ever been — over a year.

One year, and no contact. He drops out of my life with nothing, then returns — and the maddening cycle continues.

I can always tell when he’s going to disappear, when he’s had too much. Not of me, but of the world. For some reason, I remind him of the world.

There is the same scene that plays out in the last days we are together. At night, we drink — we clash glasses and chase the spirits down with nothing, in hopes that our ghosts won’t find us in our sleep.

And at this point, it stops helping, like when we wake up sweaty and pale, looking like sickly nymphs in the silvery-blue moonlight that peers through my window. He goes to his corner and I go to mine, and we huddle there, shivering, eyes darting, because we know we can never help each other.

But somehow, that’s okay. We have something better than comfort.

It’s called understanding.


~ by thecasualtychronicles on June 21, 2010.

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