These Sorts of Things

My heavy eyelids close with a faint sound like that a rusted door hinge moving. I could be hearing things but I can't be sure in this state of mind. The cold fuel pumps through my veins and supplies what energy it can to me. A slowly formed crystal drips from the corner of my left eye with little to stop it from its fall and eventual crash into the dewy grass I stand upon. I feel frozen and rusted into place like I have been bolted and positioned to the way I am and left vulnerable to rain and cold.

My ears are flooded with the miserable monotone drone that proceeds from the mouth of some man I now refuse to let myself see. He reads from a book that my hands will never touch for the fear my hands will be burned. Sins are draped about my shoulders, as confession hasn't been able to remove their weight for me.

Fresh dirt is before me. I now wish I could edge the toe of my boot into it but that movement seems too complicated for me. That black box disappears into the ground but I do not cry. The notion seems far too emotional for me. If I cry, I will certainly rust and that chrome-like band around my finger will constrict, cutting off the circulation I need.

She was such a beautiful creature and I, the aging chunk of metal that I seem to be, was lucky to have ever known her. Each lovely word she spoke would coil its presence around me like malleable copper, thin and delicate but still strong. Whatever deluded her into loving me I feel that I owe for I believe that it was such an odd thing for her to love me the way she did. Now that she is gone from me, I feel lost, like a car that without its engine is close to just plain scrap metal.

As her audience we stand there, awed by silence and robotic in our form. Only my eyes move, if anything, flickering to see the slight movement of the others around me who are not as good as stillness as I am. However, I doubt that they would want to be still, to feel empty and feel that it is pointless to move. They wouldn't want to feel like they had nothing else in the world, would they? They: those familiar faces that make her audience.

I only wish I had said something better to her before she left me. I was never good with words. I'm never good with these sorts of things. My eyes stare at her black prison that will keep her forever more. How could I have been so self-absorbed? My right hand rubs my left, tracing over the ring I wear.

Thoughts run through my head, each of them with a limp so they stay longer than expected. No tears not now anyway; I don't want to rust. 'I am sorry my love. I am always far to… I'm never good with these sorts of things.' The last words a man like me said to his wife before all of this, before she died.

I only wish that I were more mechanic, robotic. I wish we all were. For then we would not suffer. We would not cry, nor would we have these silly feelings of guilt. We wouldn't be diseased and plagued by what is human vulnerability. She wouldn't have died and I wouldn't have had to write a eulogy. I'm never good with these sorts of things.