Sunset: Loving who is dying inside.

The Dark Side Of The Moon

Yesterday I read a column in the Times about an online project that asks people to tell their life story in only six words. Hemingway style.
This is mine: Sunset: Loving who is dying inside.

you don't know what it's like he says and spits on the roof. his wary hand doesn't find the cigarette, stuck in the corner of his mouth, it went out, out like his eyes died just seconds ago and the lighter is just a faint replica of fires we once knew, faded memories...
all this, i have seen before and I don't have much time. The old brickstone building, with the mysterious redlit windows in the dark. The Japanese Restaurant I won't ever afford. The hills. The castle. The street. The dirt. The dizziness of life on the fast lane.
I swallow some tears, they are salty. Look away. Look back. His words tumble into the somber darkness like puppies that just learned to walk. I could feed them. Heed them. But I don't. Tonight I just listen. Hold his arms. His back. His heart.
I know that I don't know. At least that much. How can such a lucky person and such an unlucky person be so in love?
That's what I would like to know sometimes.

Later, on my old futon that I bought for twenty bucks from the creepy old Russian guy, I swayed back and forth between heart beats and heavy breathing.
You know nothing about what it's like to love someone who is dying inside.