Dorothy

I'm a pianist with no piano. I have no keys to pound away the agony that is playing within my heart. I have no music to write, no song to sing, no sound to make. Just the click click clicking of my keys on this keyboard and the tick tocking of the clock on the wall. It's reminding me of every second that you are not here.

And this melancholy is beginning to make me nauseous. I am sickened by my addiction, and purging myself seems to be impossible. Giving up and letting you go renders me crippled. The withdrawals are the things that wake people up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, begging and aching for it to end. 

Where the hell are you? 

It's a question that permeates the darkness in my mind, and the damn you for doing this to me response is deafening. 

You are the itch I can't scratch. You are the fists I can't relax. You are the marrow in my bones. You are the voice in my tone and the strength in my gut. You are the ocean, and I am the shore and you keep crashing against me. What if one day you don't do it anymore?

So lets just dust off the old shelf of this chicken chick's passions, and lets all pretend like everything's fine. Lets smile and say how we're puttering on by and lets engage in superficial bullshit conversation so that we can completely ignore the volcano erupting in the background because you're. not. here.

You're not here.

And that damn clock is still ticking and my fingers are still clicking on this keyboard and my heart is still aching and the sun just can't seem to rise fast enough, just to prove that this night has ended. 

The dread in my chest is making it difficult to breathe. The heaviness is forcing my muscles to work in ways they don't want to. And maybe I'll just sit here and write until the sun comes up so that I can prove to myself that I can make it through. Or maybe I'll curl up in a ball in the darkness and hide. 

The thing is that you're not here to turn on my flashlight. You're not here to startle me awake, and the night becomes an ugly experience when your heart beat isn't drowning out the noise of everything going on around me. 

Truth is I become screwed up when you're not around. And all the imagery that your strength has built up in me fades away, and the wizard that oz has come to appreciate so whole-heartedly disappears. All that's left is the cowardly lion, the heartless tin man, the feeble minded scare crow, and dorothy just wanting to go home...