“Okay.”
He planted a kiss on my mouth, his fingers lingering at the side of my jaw. “So good to have you here all to myself. Finally,” he said quietly.
He toed off his boots and climbed the stairs, my bag in his hand, his dusty leathers creaking as he moved, the wood steps groaning in his wake.
I stepped into the living room. Spare and uncluttered, except for the stone fireplace with a slab of dark wood for a mantel and the wood trim along the edges of the ceiling. Matching dark wood shutter blinds lined the great bay window, and the thick navy blue cushions dressing the window seat were inviting. A single burgundy-colored sofa faced the hearth.
Did he ever have the guys over to watch a game on the TV and have a few beers?
My gaze skipped around the stark room. He didn’t have a television.
He had a turntable, receiver and speakers though, and lots of music albums. Actual vinyl albums lined the built-in shelves on one side of the fireplace. I shuffled through the records. The Allman Brothers, Jimi Hendrix, Velvet Underground. Early Rolling Stones, late Beatles. Grateful Dead, Led Zeppelin, Eric Clapton, even Cream, the collected works of Johnny Cash. The classics, baby.
A number of books filled the set of shelves on the other side of the fireplace. I ran my fingers over the worn spines of the paperbacks. Henry Miller, Charles Bukowski, Dostoyevsky, Joseph Conrad.
Pablo Neruda. Oh, I’d enjoyed his poems years ago, and I hadn’t seen a book of his since the one I’d discovered in the library at college my freshman year.
I pulled out the slim volume and flipped open the pages. A piece of scrap paper fluttered out at me—a palm-sized square with ripped edges, as if the original piece of paper had been torn into quarters for scrap paper. I unfolded it. Two lines were scribbled in blue pen.
I reached out for you
And destroyed you instead
I blinked. It was Boner’s handwriting. I recognized it from notes he’d left for Grace on her desk. I leafed through the Neruda. Another paper had been tucked in the last quarter of the book. I opened it, my heart thumping.
I want to remember the sound of your breath When I said no
No to the smoky secrets
No to the thick lies
But I couldn’t say no to the mystery inside You laughed
And pulled me closer
And I kissed you
I kissed you
And it was like fire
A fire of absolutes
A fire in the dark
A fire in my heart
A fire that left only ashes behind
Ashes
Ashes
We all fall down
Same handwriting. These were little poems. Clips of heart-heavy emotions. Passion.
Boner wrote these. Who were they about?
I put the two poems back where I’d found them and went through more books, pulling out volumes, checking the insides. Nothing. I took in a small breath. I needed to stop. His poems were an exciting discovery, but it was as if I’d stumbled onto his journal, and I was reading it. Bad, very bad.
I wanted more.
Last book, I promised myself.
Selected Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke. I opened the tall paperback, and there it was—another paper. I unfolded it.
You raised my hopes
When I wasn’t looking I wasn’t sure before And now I’m the one who wants more But you’re missing
I can touch you, I can kiss you
You can hold me in your arms
But you won’t let me see you You’re missing
You bolted tight your doors
Jammed your windows
Locked your drawers
I can’t remain in the cold anymore
You want me, but you push me away
You fill me up and drain me away
You seek me out and then leave me in doubt You hold me tight and then let go
You let go
You’re slipping away
Making a mess
Separated by your sadness
A sadness that has no name
A sadness you can’t explain You won’t tell me
You’re missing
Remember when the laughter came easy
And sweet words and kisses had meaning?
You’re bound in a box And I can’t cut the strings You’re missing
You want me, but push me away
You fill me up and drain me away
You seek me out yet leave me in doubt
You hold me tight
And then you let go
You’re missing
My body swayed. I gripped the book tightly. Beautiful. So sad. So…
I gnawed on my lip and took in a breath. No, no. I’m eavesdropping on his heart. How would I feel if he’d cracked open one of my crazy-ass journals? I wouldn’t like it. I’d be mortified, embarrassed. My journals were my safe place, my refuge. I needed to write in them to make sense of my world and my emotions that were usually waging a battle inside my head.
The battle to stay sane.
Maybe this was Boner’s way of staying sane.
I tucked the poem back into the Rilke and slid the book into its gaping slot on the bookshelf.
I’d wanted answers, but I only got more questions.