Beautiful

Unquestionably, he is beautiful. But I am sick of beauty and crave to let my eyes rest on sleeping cats, fat and clean on a pile of newspapers that fell on the floor. Mundane things, like address plaques with chipped numbers. A poplar split in two to accommodate a power line. There's a wishbone in the kitchen, hanging on a curtain rod. When it's dry, I don't mean to wish anything with him. He knows it's there; normally, we would have broken it by now, laughing, poking the winner to admit their wish. But he's very careful with his words. He almost says nothing. I'm sick of his beauty and sick of his morose silence.

It's like when someone dies that you have loved: If you are old enough, you know to wait, that another night will ease the pain just a tiny stitch. Enough stitches and someday, you'll realize you haven't thought about them in days. When weeks go by, you feel guilty. For not having thought of the person you said you loved. To their face, you said it. But you forgot them, for a while, and you feel guilty. And one day, you won't feel guilty.

There are only a few stitches, holding my guts in. I haven't got to the point where I want to tear them out and start again, but it's close. When I do, I'll look instead at the basil, yellowing in its pot on the patio. At the white lantern with the dead wasp curled inside. At the things that remind me that the universe sometimes neglects things, too, and I shouldn't be afraid to let some things go. Maybe even the beautiful things.