Jayne

Away at night

When Jayne died, death became typical, numb as groceries. Every day a drive down the highway, on our horses, there, see the coffee, it surrounds us, each day not measured but strained through burlap, waiting for boiling water, no moments of sleep at night, she’s there when she’s not there, in the Andes I escape her, she can’t make it up La Linea, that you can’t fake, that I do myself, no one follows me on the descent. And there is no music anymore, no speech, no kisses, no real sitting, no reading, no gazing, no tender breathing, because when she’s gone she’s gone. She cannot be gone. She had her bicycle and she was to show it to me the next week. She felt ill at night and she was trying to figure out what was wrong. She was alone and wasn’t in bed. She was sitting by herself gazing at the nighttime internet. Damn it she was in no one’s arms. How fucked up to be one with the night, how fucked up to have no space from the stars, how fucked up to never begin or complete, how fucked up to have fought time and won, now the victory is so fucking cold, nothing moves, there’s no climbing left, there’s nothing to reach, there is no up or down or beginning or end, man there’s fucking nothing. What a way to go. A new star now.