Insomnia: Three Months

In my bed by night, I sought
him whom my soul loves;
I sought him, but found him not.

Song of Songs


A LOOK AROUND THE BEDROOM

Here is his pillow and here are his glasses; here is his pen and here is his sketchbook. Here is his pillow and here is his indentation in the mattress. Here is the scent of him in a pale yellow shirt; here are the black shoes he polished and the pictures he hung and the notes he left in an early sketchbook, one from May 1987.

I love Pamela and Matisse and Pamela and Leonardo and Pamela and Michelangelo and Pamela and coffee and Pamela and books and Pamela and almost anything. She insinuates herself into everything I read and write and draw and sculpt.

All this builds up like coral and fans out like coral and branches like coral. This slow accretion of parting. This still life of what was Harvey’s and what is now mine. Why is there still life when life has been stilled?

I want to be with him. I don’t want to be dead.

That’s the great conundrum. I want us to be alive. I may have a pulse but this is not living. He doesn’t have a pulse but is more real than I am.

The ceiling fan ticks; my pulse throbs; I seek you but don’t find you. I’ll keep looking.