Gone.

All of the rooms of the apartment were empty. He left with everything that we bought together and everything he had before I existed in his life. I was left rattling loose in a room with nothing but shelves full of a record collection that was my whole world now. I laughed at the walls I couldn't see because I had so many.I was trying to decide who was going to keep me company, Patsy maybe? She knew how I felt. Pasty Cline hit the nail exactly on the head when it came to heartbreak. I wonder if her lover had caressed her cheek and looked into her eyes one last time. If he had looked her in the eye and told her he couldn't take anymore. Maybe he had, or maybe Patsy was a nicer girl, less complicated. Maybe her lover only left her because he was afraid of comittment. I lit a cigarette and decided not to call on Pasty, she was too good. She probably didn't let her fears and emotions rule her life. Her man would probably take her back when he realized her voice held tears without bitterness, and it was okay to love someone forever. I was too jealous of her. I sat in the center of the cold room. There used to be a plush green rug there, but he took that too. We used to make love on that rug while records were spinning and the Beatles assured us that all we would need was love. Funny how truth applies moment to moment. I looked to the section where I had kept our Beatles records, I thought they would be gone. But I found them exactly where they were supposed to be. I didn't want to touch them. Looking at them made my eyes burn, so I was sure if I touched them I would pull back a hand engulfed in flames. He had taken everything except the records. I wondered if he had meant them to comfort me. Wrap their intangible words around me until I could breathe on my own again. Music could cradle me in moments of darkness like he never could. He was jealous maybe. Jealous of my attatchment to people that didn't care if I was alive or dead. All through being comitted I listened to them, pretended they knew where I was and what I was going through. After I got home I told everyone that Music saved my life. I just smiled at the man who helped me get dressed and made sure that I ate everyday. A small smile for the man that paced out side of my hospital room when I lost control. An insignificant nod to the man that rode with me in the ambulance and then had to go home and wash my blood off of our hardwood floor. I was glad in this moment that Bob Dylan didn't know me or that George Harrison didn't care about me, I was a monster. Thats why he left me with the records. He was tired of them. I saw it clearly now. He had asked Bob Dylan if it was okay to leave me, he worried over it, over if I could survive it. Bob told him not to think twice, it's alright. I had told him that it would be alright. Paul Simon had given him fifty ways to leave me, but he didn't use any of them. Instead, he told me he loved me, told me to take care of myself and be strong, and then gave me that last kiss. I loved him unconditionally as he walked away. Funny how truth applies moment to moment.

I hugged my knees to my chest and wondered vaugely if I would ever be able to listen to them again. These records, my walls, my protection. I looked around and realized that he had taken his record player with him.