Another suitcase in another hall

There are lights on in the house.  The old rundown house that I used to fantasize of fixing up; the one with wild grapes climbing the white picket fence outside.  In it's dilapidation it was transformed from just one more New England farmhouse to a romantic daydream.  In this dream we fixed the garden out front and painted the siding, and maybe even broke the padlock off the front door and cleaned the inside too.  There would be bright curtains in the windows and the whole town would marvel at the fairy magic that happened overnight. 

My best friend told me an old lady used to live there.  She had two little dogs, a black and a white one, and they used to bark and whine in the tiny yard when she creaked outside to give them a "walk."  Then, one day the black one was missing.  Soon she didn't go outside, and then there was a lock on the door.

And now I'm here, remembering fair grounds and dark rooms, dancing in smoky basements, being scared in the woods and that last kiss.  And somehow in some other universe those moments are happening still and always; and in a dark hotel room I am putting a ring on a nightstand and at the same time we are shouting "I'm likable, damn it!" and I am in still trying not to fall.  And that girl, that version of me, will always be there, and she will always be trapped in those minutes... and she is frustrated.  But now I can't see, there are too many tears because I didn't, couldn't cry earlier.  I am shaking and cold despite the wood fire.  For the fist time in my life, the very first, the smell of the ocean is disgusting and vile.  This scares me, because maybe this time things won't turn out all-right, maybe this is the end of good and happy and here I am, trapped.  And I built this trap, I made this cage for myself but I can't help it, can't stop adding bars.  

People tell me that this is temporary, but I don't believe them anymore.  This is Life, and so this is it.  And in some parallel cycle I am stuck in the same place I was all those years ago; the days when I didn't think things could get any worse.  I gave up on humanity as a kind thing during those two years, and began to see mankind as evil, malicious, out to hurt.  Perhaps that's too much, too far.  But overstated or understated true.  Melodramatic, but true.  And here I am and here I have given up on myself, too.  So I'll force myself back to those places of evil memories, tell myself it's the right thing to do.  And I'll sit shaking in the swing that was my home, and remember what it's like to not have a friend in the world.

And I thought that Meadville was worse, so much worse.  And perhaps now I can't return without the shaking and nausea in my stomach.  But in some sick joke, I left my heart behind in Pennsylvania.  And I don't know why or how, but I know that I'm useless without it.  So now for a while I'll be a shell again, and maybe I'll start listening to more country and trying to learn obscure sports terms and pretend that this can change things.  But every time I have ever loved someone they have left, or I have left, and it always goes the same way.  Two weeks and we talk daily.  A month and we are repeating the same dry meaningless stories.  Two months and life is too much to relay, we fall back on pleasantries and meaningless small talk.  Then the talk stops, fizzles away and I am left alone, normality I suppose.  And I'm used to this, I know how it works and so I must again go through the motions... but each time it's harder and the hurt covers more of me.  And so here I am... putting my memories in a box and praying with absolutely no hope that this time will be different, this person can do what no one else has managed to before.  Don't let me slip away, please.

And now there are lights on in the house, and I am alone.