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Sadly, disappointingly, there was no-one at all beside me in the bed when I turned over. The bedclothes were rumpled but cold, the pillows rearranged and the uppermost one had a gritty, head shaped mark on it. A mark but thankfully no head for, judging by the aroma left behind it hadn’t been washed recently.

I turned over, mainly to escape the scent of it but also because my left side had gone numb from too much lying that way round. And after a while I began to wonder who it was I had made love to in that self same bed.

Sadly, disappointingly I found I could not remember.

I get times like this a lot now I am older. Forgetful times, annoying times, times when I am convinced that not just one wheel but all four of the damn things have fallen off completely. So when I come to repair it I shall use a lot of that rough tweedy material I bought last year at auction, and keep it in place with those brass nails with square heads, made in Germany.

They’d have to be, I suppose ‘cos we don’t make anything here anymore, instead, lame and limping we close ourselves into boxes for safety whilst quivering in the busy bustling day, the street urchin evening, rusty ragged and dusty with despair yet knowing no other, cowed by numbers, battered by volume and always half a step away from the edge.

You were like that weren’t you? Reserved, cowed, never giving all of yourself. Even naked you retained an air, like a veil which for comfort or concealment you kept tightly wrapped around yourself.

I used to dream about that veil, about cutting the bindings which held it there, dream constantly, incessantly, obsessively even but sadly your revelation was never to be.

Now there is no dream. Not now, not anymore. Nothing save an urge to end the farce as simply as one can. No dream to work soft stitches on in embroidery’s patience and no book to read in leisure's lamplight nor nightmare to shudder at in despair’s darkness. Simply an urge to exit and that is all.

So tweed and brass nails is what I’ll repair it with, to make it last, to see me out because I’ll have no time to do it again. No time at all, which was what I was going to try to talk to you about.

Yes I know times are hard, they always have been, except you didn’t notice until it suddenly became fashionable to do so. To save the planet and thereby your own soul for someone’s salvation. Don’t look at me and definitely don’t ask me. You say you’re not frigid but I can feel it all the way over here, like your fridge door is jammed open with a chair. But don’t worry, it isn’t me you’ll have to worry about before long, ‘cos I’m going anyway. Going where your spiteful unsexiness can never reach me.

And so, sadly, disappointingly as I say, there really was no-one at all beside me in the bed when I turned over.

………………

I retained my warmth and after a while I began to wonder who on earth it might have been that I’d made love to in that bed. Wonder and oh my dear felt so achingly sad. It’s midwinter that does it, strengthening at my door while mistress moon hides in cloud and firelight flickers in the hearth. I don’t mind when smoke billows, every so often, into the room as if in search of some softer, sweeter scents. I like it, like the brown marks it leaves on the walls and under the overhanging mantel. Woodsmoke, like unrefined incense, slowly permeating.

Now I've incense and nonsense but overall......... over all the sweetness a sadness lies. I am both loved and unloved, how can that be? Both spurned and cuddled at the same time, or so it seemed. Even so I feel like the only island left in the stream, a blob in an abandoned backwater, a dead leaf adrift in a sea of apathy while the currents do their level best to pass me by.

Incense and woodsmoke, not much to choose between them but on the other hand if I chose the method, the time and the place of my own death, would anyone blame me? It is all I have left now, the little bit of pride that still burns lies hidden so deep you will not see it, no matter how far you look into my eyes.

The Cats see it of course, they know me of old and will mourn ‘cos they know I don’t lie and won’t lie. Especially to them. My Familiar will be harder to console however, for when I die she dies too and that is the one thing which makes me sad above all other sadnesses I could imagine. Summers won’t miss me, autumns likewise. Springs and winters don’t even get a mention. But Cats now, they’re a different thing altogether, and Familiars, one in particular – mine, she’ll bear the greatestest, the most differentest sort of miss me of them all.

………………

Don’t talk to me, don’t moan or complain. Its too late and I, we, have had it. You were my last chance or so I thought, all things considered. My last chance, and yours and you threw it all away. Pack up you stuff again if you like. Threaten me with it. You’ve done it before, many times with varying success. This time you will have no success at all. None! And all subsequent attempts will be pointless. I won’t fuck you goodbye so don’t even ask, don’t even attempt to say the word.

………………

The sun is setting, around the headland and the tide will be turning very soon. Not exactly in my favour yet so I wait while the winds whisper wickedly. My thoughts are her thoughts, ever true, ever faithful, always and forever known intimately. What would she be I’ve often wondered had my thoughts, my needs brought her into tangible being when Familiar is such an inadequate word.

I stretch, scratch, time passes and at the top of the tide I recall the last time you kissed me, the very last time we had a fuck. The very last time, yes it was!

Orange skies and hesitation, a breeze, a breath, a time to reconsider?

Never I tell myself, it is much too late, too late now even while the tide still hovers, laps listlessly, biding the moment before finally turning, trickling faster……faster, ready to take me……out through the dragon gate into Summerland.

Orange skies and the orb sinks, foaming as the ocean bubbles around it.

I hear the sand sucking, nibbling at my feet, sense the salt’s bite, the gravel’s press, the mud’s give, and stand, round shouldered as always, waiting.

I remember that another year has come and gone, almost gone now that it’s own evening draws near, drooping with dismal dreariness through one of several holes in the edge of the horizon. I rejoiced it's passing for as each day died so nearer came the time when I too could go. Now I’ll not wait, not linger nor tarry. Not on dune nor headland windy, where shadowy wild geese fade faintly, shivering to nothingness against the last sky I shall ever see in this lifetime. I’ll not wait for them either, no nor chase them, but hasten away alone, to seek those who have gone before, to find them wherever they may wait for me.

I am tired now, bone tired and wearied from the exertion of simply being. Worn thin to nothingness, less than the mist which hangs where the waves break sluggishly. Give me the sweetness of silence and slumber and the solace of my ancestor’s bosom and I’ll give them my thanks for the simplest of things, for the opportunity to renew their line which they gave to me.

That was the worst of it you see. An opportunity won and lost.

“Suicide is painless” she says inside my head. “It brings on many changes……”

I think I heard that somewhere before, know I did but it was only her, only her consoling me. So I’ll choose the place, the time, the method and make no mess, no blood on the ceiling nor piss on the floor. I’ll beat the drum to slow my heart rate, chant the words to bring on sleep, and you’ll never know that my passing was not natural, for there will be nothing to give the game away.

No don’t worry, it is, was, will be painless, as painless as she has promised me. Its her end as well as mine after all.

………………

I feel the sand sucking at my feet, hear the curlews cry. Darkness builds, shall I take a step or shall I stand stock still and wait.

Then she whispers to me, again, the familiar’s promise “Put your hand on my heart as the daylight dies, and believe what I say, for this love never lies……”

I knew that all along, instinctively, even genetically but being reminded strengthens my, our, resolve all over again.

Around the headland the tide begins to run. Not exactly very fast as yet, but it gathers strength now that it knows what to do. The wind whispers confirmation, so I stretch, take a step and the gravel crunches behind me.

At the top of the tide a new life begins, an old one falls away, a footprint fades, a bit of weed, a broken shell, a shredded, sand softened, sad soul that drifts and drifts…….

© Aahlu. 14042011.