there's been a run of fires downtown
you're finally dead.
for the past fifteen years, i've had the strange, certain knowledge that you would die young. that it would be sudden, violent. that it wouldn't be an accident. i would scour the news for traces of you, any sort of proof of life. i once saw you wandering down the street as i drove past-- you didn't notice me, but the sight of you burned behind my eyelids for years after that. a miracle in the flesh: a dead man walking.
sudden. violent. almost certainly not an accident. finally, you're in the news.
it took me a few moments to process. i had to reread your name twice before the concept sunk in and took root. somewhere in the back of my brain, i've always thought you were dead, even when i logically knew otherwise. so it was strange to have that align with the reality of your name in bold font, like a blurred image coming into sharp, cold focus.
i think i told one person about it before, maybe two at most. i confessed about all of it-- the watching, the waiting, the dark pit of inevitability somewhere beneath my ribs. i remember being asked if i was in love with you. if that was the reason for all of this.
of course, it is not. it never was. love is a slippery emotion for me as is, and god knows i could never hold it long enough for someone i only ever saw once in adulthood. but i did catch glimpses of you before then, and every time i did, i'd watch you until you disappeared-- always as quickly as you came, because you never lingered long-- and so my memories of you are just as fleeting: dark eyes, brows furrowed, fists clenched, scowl a red slash of anger across your face. i'd watch you, and that pit beneath my ribs would grow a little wider, sink a little deeper.
(not love. obviously not. later, with time and experience, i'd recognize the feeling as dread.)
for what it's worth, i'm sorry. i hoped i would be wrong. and, to be honest, i never actually thought i'd find out either way. i've just been holding my breath all this time, waiting for something terrible beyond words, unable to explain myself and unwilling to try.
keeping vigil. for fifteen years.
(not a pit.
a tunnel. abyssal dark, pitch black. seeing nothing, hearing nothing, but feeling deep in the marrow in my bones that thundering charge of the--)

















