Between the absence and the presence is the thing

There were the deadnerve days, an apartment littered with yesterday’s yesterday’s cups of coffee. I pressed my hand against the window just to feel, how cold the glass, walked around with most of my bed around my shoulders. I didn’t turn on the heat on account of how it dried out my nose and I didn’t like the smell. And also there was the money.

Then there were her days, the ones where the bathroom echoed forth a voice singing snotty old Alanis Morrisette songs, you know the ones about Joey Gladstone. She got embarrassed when I said I’d heard while light cut through the slats in the blinds. We would make love, and it would be about how long we could hold onto a conversation before losing the gasping thread.

There were probably other kinds of days, but really I’m talking about those two, which was which, which was true. My brain told me all the time how I wanted to die. It made compelling arguments. I did what I could to not listen. Every now and then she would touch my face or say something, I don’t know, it felt like a refutation or a spell. Two types of day. That’s what I’m saying. I knew then that one was doomed.