Miniature

It can be hard to put into words. When depression sweeps like a black cape.

When you think your brain has been ruined by nights of drinking. (And it probably has.) You can't remember things anymore and you have no new ideas. And you're not a man, so you can't drink and grow better or wiser. Only forget, forget things--into big gaping holes. 

Was that a dream, or did I respond? Did I speak to her? What did I say to him?

Medicine doesn't help anymore.

Waiting... waiting. The clouds gather over head and you think about things. Sort of think about. Not like you used to (when you contained complex emotion.) (What do you contain now? Nothing?)

Nothing but endless scrolling and maybe the chance to hear his voice and see his face.

But needing to be something that is worth being in love with. Needing to remember the purposeful self.

Ah, but all purposes fly away! Or ossify to be skidded across a lake or hidden in a hole.

And you wait... wait.

Re-read, re-look, re-watch, review review review those scenes from the past, the pictures, the words you wrote. From Kings Road or Lumpkin or 52nd Street. From the pier in Greenwich or the tree in Worcester. All seeming more present than the present.

Trying to achieve Frida's miniature brush strokes. Is impossible. As impossible as Charlotte's miniature pennings from Top Withens. Woman--bead, minimus, acorn--small strokes of great feeling. Buying the flowers yourself. Maybe always being sad.

Making him coffee and bringing it to him.

"Thank you, sweetie pie. You're so good to me."