2/13/09 Valentine's Day Eve: Sipping Mimosas

As I sit listening to the soft plinking patter of the rain,
I sip my fourth, perhaps fifth, mimosa,
shamelessly.

I'm tired.
I'm worn out.
I'm ready to sleep
the sleep that I crave,
the sleep of a man with little else to do.

That man is not me.
That man is care free.
That man lives somewhere else
in a place far from here,
in a place far from her.

That man may live in
a tree house,
high above the tree tops,
high above the clouds,
high above the troubles and
cares of the world below.

That man may live in
a bungalow
near the shore of
a beach,
a beach of pink sand,
the pink of ground coral,
where wild burros wander,
and sharks patrol the reef just beyond the break.

That man may think to himself
often
just how lovely
the world might be

if it were real.

The dream is real.
The dream presses on him.
The dream is all he knows.

I wish I were that man.

I know I am that man.

I see him from a distance.
I walk in his shoes.

Sorrow is a foolish indulgence.
Self-pity, just that — pitiful.

As I walk out into the soft,
warm rain,
I cannot help but
remember,
how she held me and said,
"I will always love you."
Just before she abandoned me.

I know now how the world works.
I just don't know why.