Today

I cried today.

It was the first time in a good while - the last time, it was because the Taco Bell drive-thru told me they had run out of beans. In a brief moment of panic, confusion, and outrage, a single tear was shed, if I do remember correctly. I think it's a fair statement to say that my very childhood was founded on the ideal that Taco Bell would never, ever run out of beans. Everything quickly returned to normal, and I ordered a soft taco instead.

No, today was different.

Today I had a different kind of tears. Fearful, lonely, heart-broken tears.

Even now, it almost seems like too much, my eyes well up and I think about backspacing everything, as if I had never strung the words together in the first place. It would be easier that way, if I didn't have to write, if I didn't have to process it.

Perhaps that explains the many nights spent high as a kite, escaping, occasionally, in cloudy vision and my favorite cereal. It helps me escape, as I'm sure everyone has said about his or her vices. It gives me a fraction of time to breathe, letting the words and actions of others fall sensibly to the ground while I focus on myself. It's selfish... I know.

However, I find that personal tragedy is best resolved on a blank canvas. Or in this case, behind a blinking cursor.

I talked to him earlier today. It's been difficult lately, for the both of us. Conflicting schedules, and occasional conflicting interests, as well. We're still trying to figure things out - transitioning, experimenting, removing what doesn't work and incorporating something new into our year-and-eight-month long relationship. It's not easy putting all of these pieces together, planning our future. And lately, I think, it's been overwhelming the both of us.

It was an online conversation (the worst kind). We were arguing over time spent and moments missed, and I could feel myself chipping away. Just a little, like a sandstorm sweeping over a skyscraper, it's paint peeling ever so slightly under the circling winds.

It wasn't so much what was said, or even the meanings behind the words themselves. It was me, not able to handle arguing with the one person I find safety in, the one I've held in my arms on those difficult nights, the one that I gladly call my love.

As lines of text rushed up the screen due to my quick, frustrated typing, my face became red; my hands, cold. I could hear the crescendo of violins, playing their notes of sorrow and anguish, in my head.

That's when I started crying.

I'm a big guy, and no one likes to see big guys cry. Our faces become distorted in a mix of facial expressions, a melting pot of emotion. I looked into the mirror of my bathroom (I had escaped the other room in order to hide my break in character from the others), and I saw my face. I looked relatively normal, my glasses slightly crooked, my clumsy goatee still in place, and my neck again suggesting that I was the offspring of Rosie.

My eyes, though, were glossy and my cheeks scarlet. I immediately turned off the light, I placed my face in my hands, and I cried. Little noises, barely audible, escaped my mouth. In fear of someone coming in to check on me, I turned on the faucet. I turned on the ceiling fan. I turned on the electric razor sitting on the sink.

After a few moments, my crying had stopped. I sat in the dark, waiting for clarity, hoping for an invisible someone to throw their arms around me, to comfort me.

I eventually left the bathroom, but that hasn't stopped me from feeling those same emotions. So, I continue waiting. Thinking. Maybe even praying.

I want you to know, love, that yes, this is fixable. Yes, this is something we can work through. Yes, I'm willing to try this as many times as it takes.

For tonight, though, I want to be alone.

Tomorrow? We'll try it again. Yes. We'll try it again.