MISSING HIM

Sychler Cates was not terribly nice to me. None of that matter, though. To me, he was dark and handsome and dangerous. Needless to say I had an enormous debilitating crush on him. When I was in the sixth grade I fell in love with a boy. The boy nobody could break. A boy strong and shining among a crowd. I watched him lean against the wall and smoke a ciggarette. When he lifted his head his eyes would fill my heart.

The boy had blue eyes as do I. His were far more striking. He dressed with style. He didn't dress to show off his wealth or beauty, though he had both. He dressed to show who he was. I danced with him once, on a rooftop. It was drizzly and cold. We climbed up there to smoke. I sat shivering and smoking. We waltzed above the skyline stumbling and giggling.

" Wear that to my funeral." He whispered. "you look beautiful." I felt beautiful. I promised I would, never believing I would have to. I talked to the boy one night. It smelled like spring that night. I crouched behind my house smoking.

The boy I loved wraps leather around his arm. His body tightens. His lips curl. The rush flows from the needle. I can feel it dancing, sweating inside him. The river is sex, climax, and ciggarette. His eyes glaze and then smile. The boy I loved died. He died with a spike in his arm, injecting venom into his body. He died alone. He closed those blue eyes and died. Poison killed him. He loved that evil potion that made him fly free.

I dreamed of the boy I loved. I was wearing a ball gown, with flowers entertwined in my hair, walking on a spring morning. I walked too far and fell in a blue lake. I am beautiful in my dream. I fell into the blue water. I opened my eyes as I suffocated. If only I could have saved the boy. If only I could have set him free.

I have always wanted to be free. Soaring, alone, without inhibitions. I tried to fly away from his funeral. It was classic-raining, hailing maybe. I drove up the hill, the boys house looming ahead of me. His house with the father inside. He got those blue eyes from his father.

I pulled up girl music playing behind me. I started walking. The boy said I looked beautiful in these clothes, these shoes. I was wet and cold and not pretty. I sat down and smoked a soggy ciggarette. I walked three miles, before I went to his house and looked into those eyes, his eyes, the father's eyes.

Then, I was alone. Alone was bliss. Alone was power. Alone was self-loathing, hatred. I had forgotten how to be with people. The world was spinning. My eyes burned red.

Summer comes. The air was fresh, but somehow bitter. I walked with flowers entertwined in my hair. I don't think the hurt had actually faded. I think probably I just forgot how it felt to be normal. I felt guilty when I laughed. The boy I love will never laugh again. It was summer, but I was cold.

Those eyes, his eyes, the father's eyes still haunt me. I suspect they always will. Over too many glasses of champagne and a pack of a ciggerettes, I made a resolution . I will be happy. I will not forget the boy I love. I will allow him to become the boy I loved once, a memory.