ex·cerpts from hope·less se·man·tic

dis·turb /dəˈstərb/ | dream /drēm/ | dan·ger /dānjər/

dis·turb /dəˈstərb/

Verb. To interfere with the normal arrangement or functioning of;  to interrupt the quiet, rest, peace or order of; to unsettle, disarrange.

I borrow your razor when I forget to pack my own. Run it over my legs and under my arms in the shower to erase any growth. Keep things smooth and neat. Easy. You slip into the bathroom to steal a kiss, or a peek, or both. Notice it sitting on the ledge of the tub, and not next to the sink where you’d left it.  

“I use that on my face.” You deliver this court ruling for a crime I wasn’t aware I was committing, then disappear back into the bedroom.

I close the curtain, coating the ends of my hair with the conditioner provided compliments of the hotel.

Wonder if you’ve forgotten all the other places your face has been.

Believe your amnesia must be simply a flash that will have passed by the time I rinse, turn off the water, and wrap a towel around my body, another around my head.

Find you half dressed in a lightly starched, white button-down shirt and grey boxer briefs, perched on the edge of a king-sized bed that is only temporarily ours. Stewing like you’ve just discovered your college roommate drank the entire case of beer without so much as asking.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” I offer, taking a seat next to you.

“That’s not necessary.” Your sigh suggests otherwise.

We are interrupted by a timid knock on the door, followed by an even smaller voice on the other side.

“Housekeeping.”

“Can you come back later.” It’s not a question, so much as your command.

“I put out the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign,” I say in my defense, standing to gather my things. “I always do. Every time.”

“Where are you going?”

“It’s after eight. My first meeting is at nine.”

“We have time,” you say, gently grabbing my wrist and pulling me towards you to once again do what we always do - what we only do - behind closed doors. Try to remember which room we’re in this time. 245. 1408. 932. I keep my key cards in their original paper sleeves for a reason. Sometimes it’s the only way I know where I am.

My towels fall away and land in a heap, and I am left exposed in cold, wet tangles. Your hands start to trace the same places I did just moments ago with something borrowed - something I thought I could make my own. I keep my eyes on the clock next to the bed, wondering what nicks I’ll later discover and feel long after you’re gone.

dream /drēm/

Noun. A series of thoughts, images, or emotions occurring in a person's mind during sleep.

My acupuncturist tells me that not being able to fall asleep represents not being able to let go of the day - or letting the day die. And not being able to stay asleep is connected to the fear of the unknown. He places small needles in strategic points on my wrists, my abdomen, my ankles, and proposes I write about my death. Specifically, what it would feel like to die. What it would mean to those around me. How I would say goodbye, and who I need to say goodbye to, and who I wouldn’t. He says in order to find sound sleep, I must first tackle this assignment, then cautions it will not be easy, admitting, “It took me six months to be able to write my own.”

*

I wear your clothes to sleep, in lieu of being with you. I have gathered these artifacts during our series of archaeological digs, our acts to create something by removing something else. My collection is small, but specific. White, cotton, slim fit, v-neck tees. Black and blue dress shirts with darts in the collar. Black boxer briefs with a red band. What once covered your skin now hugs mine. Our excavation has been suspended, and these pieces are my only proof of what once existed. A you, and an I. A we.

*

Sometimes, when I dream, I realize within the dream that I am dreaming. That if I tried hard enough, I could wake myself up to get myself out of a less than desirable scenario, or maybe even influence the direction of my thoughts. Last night, this realization came to be, but I couldn't wake myself up, and at one point I thought, "Oh God. It's because I am dead. I died. And this is where I will now always be, because I am no longer a being." Ever feel a surge of terror and peace at the same time? Mostly I just wanted to know how I died. Was it fast or slow. Did it hurt. Did I know it was coming. Did I bleed. I hoped that I'd somehow managed to right my wrongs, correct my unfinished business. That I had said every, "I love you" and "I'm sorry," that I had asked for and received forgiveness, that I had bestowed my own. And then I woke up. 48-pound Catahoula hound dog nestled into the crook of my legs, softly snoring. A slight, cool, Pacific Northwest breeze kissing my face from the open window above my head. And outside perched on a wire high above, a murder of crows shouting at me, "You are here. You are still here."

*

I want more time with you. I want to see you again, I want to be alone, and I want to be with you. I want to not want. I want you to dream. I want to sleep, and not dream of you.

dan·ger /dānjər/

Noun. The possibility of suffering harm or injury; peril; risk.

At night, I dream of flying alone. A 747 departing from Seattle, my seat in the back half of the plane, referred to as section D. While still parked at the gate, several men storm the aircraft and take us hostage, holding shiny, black machine guns large enough to require the strength of both hands. Their faces and voices are indistinct, no stereotypical accents or ethnicities. There is nothing to assume or profile. They are just adult men with weapons, and a plan to make us suffer.

Demands are made to allow for take off, and when they are met, our captors inform us the plane is rigged to split apart upon our ascent. They do not explain why. We are simply, calmly, quietly told that it is coming, and before we can scream, cry, run, revolt, or freeze, it does. The gutted groaning of metal, a paparazzi of natural light, the wailing sighs of wind, a skip, a bounce, a final thud. My section of fuselage lands on the shoreline of a body of water. A lake, perhaps, or the ocean, though there is no trace of salt in the air. We are not yet fully submerged, but surely I am already dead as I stumble backwards on the sand, away from all the burning debris.

Then I see my own face still among the wreckage, leaning against an oval window that remains intact. My head is covered in a scarf, my skin shadowed in soot. My eyes jolt open. My external body races back and rips apart the fuselage, pulling the broken me out of the plane, administering mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.  Airway, breathing, circulation. Two breaths. 30 compressions. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

This should not be a one person job.

My injured self finally takes a breath, then starts to bleed.

But I am alive. And I can save myself when I crash.