A Portrait of Cardiomyopathy
Written by: Stephen Keaton
So, it’s been awhile. I’m sure everything is fine. Silence makes the heart grow weaker by the moment, and when your love is M.I.A., sleep takes a turn to where it doesn’t happen, and the sunrise in all its glory seems a bit presumptuous. I knew she was alive, and that is what seemed to matter at this moment.
It didn’t mean that I missed that smile that greeted me as I walked in the door after work. She worked twice as hard, but I was always working to keep up. I could never thank her enough for waking up in the morning with a kiss that led to lackadaisical morning sex; the type where you just melt into each other with a rhythmic half-consciousness that ends in lackluster bliss… There is always that kiss at the end to prove that it was love.
…And it is hard to find a kiss like that which actually brings you to the feeling of being complete. Something so real that shatters glass. Anyone that has ever loved knows that feeling. And I’ve been told you might be able to find it again… With the right amount of souls on this earth, I will believe it; saving a mate for your “true one" that meant the world at the right time.
And the debate could roll on about “Soul-Mates” and all that gibberish that writes Hallmark cards and treats hearts like packages shipped to a certified receiver… There is no answer to that and so many move on to find another after “said” loss… And it works.
“When there is nothing left to burn, you must set yourself on fire.” – Stars.
And that seemed true for the moment. At least enough to cleanse and show a hint of rebirth.
I’m not saying that I can forget those drives down the I-10, feeling I was walking into a new world that would never leave me. Everything that seems to be good, well, fuck it. It was just a thought. I left with a clean conscience knowing that I did nothing wrong.
I just didn’t want to miss her anymore.
My tabs where growing large at home and at bars where I never gave my name. Everywhere was just scrambling onto napkins or letters un-read some sick poetry that spelled everything that I felt, but wouldn’t dare to read.
I felt so sick of feeling this need for love that seemed movie script that I wanted to kill off my character with a slow dying cancer or any pain knowing lost love is not the worst thing.
…But is it?
Stress Cardiomyopathy is a real problem. Have you ever had your heart broken, or watched your love vanish beyond your control? Have you ever felt sick to your stomach when knowing the romantic end was near?… And ultimately, you know that pain when your love packs her things and drives away. People die from this condition, feeling nothing more than their heart cave in from the loss.
I felt this, yet screamed, “Let me out!”
The anti-thesis to anything worth saying is that there is no leaving the love you lost; you can never eXplain why they are gone, and every trick in the book won’t bring them back, yet, they are gone.
So, we spend our time traveling, sitting still, and still trying to find out what time we land and where.
…All I know is that I have grown to love the smell of airports and people watching. The fascination with distant newspapers and strong coffee and a Sam Adams right before a 10:00 a.m. flight. The destination seemed to be as of late what you dread; funeral after defunct reunion… That is where everyone came together under the cloak of togetherness, yet tragedy was the real bond.
I miss the days of flying to meet a love on one end, or maybe just to travel for the sake of it. But, traveling seemed to take a heavier toll these days. There were too many memories of an airport. Pleasure turned to nothing but stone-cold business. I had to fly east to make my life worthwhile. But, would she be there?
Flying coast to coast made me sick with the turbulence...
