The Tax

The dreams of you are slipping away from me.

Sand through my fingers. Black sand, like the odd mix of soot and rubble and dreams that fills up that old warehouse where we got married. Where those bounty hunters hit you in the head with a brick enough times for it to loop past cruel overkill twice.

I never dreamt about that.

No, my dreams of you were relegated to warm days where you wore that peach backpack and that green hat half a size too big. I dreamt about your lips under fire-tinged moonlight. I dreamt about that strawberry dress and how pretty it looked against the green hospital sheets that had once been curtains.

They were doing the best they could.

I carried you thirty-four miles to that place only to leave empty-handed with a stupid little stick to plug into a computer.

When you booted up, I wept.

You did too.

For two years, we twiddled our thumbs, mine literally and yours metaphorically, until the taxman came and branded my chest with a big, fat "T" for take.

It was my turn to be taxed.

He gave me my fair share of the world's burden because I was too happy in a place that was rotting with despair. The warehouse with its flickering green light and its filthy floor wasn't bad enough. Not when I could still smile.

I don't smile anymore.

He unplugged you. Crushed the device in front of my eyes. And set fire to the warehouse.

And then you were gone. But now the dreams of you are too.

It's been six days since I dreamt of you and there's a cry inside of me howling rhythmically like a drum.

That was goodbye.

There isn't much I can do about it. I've taken the drugs. Drank the right things. It's the same in the end. The "T" on my chest still burns. This was my burden to take. I had to lose you. Physically. Electronically. And mentally. I'll bet there's a day somewhere off in the future where I won't love you anymore either.

I should have done more to keep you here.

Maybe if I had locked your fading thoughts inside a cage of programming, I could have kept you here a little longer.

Or maybe you were always doomed to fall away from me. Maybe in every lifetime I knew you, I got you killed. Maybe that's my burden. Killing you with love. Killing you with hope. Maybe my tax is always your burden to bear.