Choking on pomegranate seeds and kokopelli shadows.

At two in the morning, you send me a text asking if you could call me. I say of course you can, and when the phone rings I am already in my closet, pulling on clothes one-handed so I can go smoke a cigarette and maybe catch a glimpse of the stars.

You're on the verge of tears as my lighter flares in the dark. "It hurts," you say.

"What does, baby?"

"Me. Life. I'm trapped."

"You're never trapped," I say, trying not to sound as desperate and uncertain as I feel. "You can always change something."

"There's nothing to change," you say, strained.

"What's eating you most right now, babe?"

"Everything. Just everything."

"I'm not arguing, lover. I just don't know what 'everything' means for you. You need to talk to me so I can understand." You are the first person I have ever called "lover" out loud, and every time I say it, it feels more like a lie. I can never be sure if that's the truth ringing in my mouth or my own fears making me taste the warm metal of untruth.

"Work. People at work. The red-haired girl. Me and you. Me and Persephone," you list off, your voice scant inches from shattering. "It hurts. Everything hurts. Mostly my chest, and my head. They just hurt."

I have to remind myself that crying will do you no good. I bite my lip between cigarette drags and manage, tearlessly, "I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry. Is it better for you right now if you talk, or listen?"

"You should talk," you say. "About anything. It hurts for me to do it."

I bite my I-knows between my teeth, remembering how much R used to hate them, as if I knew things he didn't, or at least was pretending to. That was never true, but it doesn't matter now. Instead, I ramble about life, the most trivial things I can find at the top of my head. I cut much of my life out--anything glowing in the pomegranate-red of your Persephone. I talk about class, and how I wish I had a telescope. I talk about my little brother trying to date girls who are no good. I talk about how damn cold it is, and how I've been dreaming about New York again. In the middle of all this, I finish my cigarette, and in the echoing confines of my stairwell, I say, "I hope I'm helping at least a little bit."

You mumble on the other end of the phone, and before I have a chance to ask what you said, you continue, "I'm just tired. I think I want to sleep."

"I can let you go?"

I can almost feel you shaking your head, minutely, two hundred miles away, and when you say, "You should keep talking. I like the sound of your voice," it feels like I expected it. And why wouldn't I? I'd watched your Persephone fall asleep on the phone with you at least a dozen times, and heard tales of at least a dozen more conversations that ended in your unconscious breathing and her quiet laughter. This thought hurts me, in a way it has no right to, but I don't tell you that. Not yet.

I talk about nothing for the next ten minutes: there's a mix CD on my desk meant for you. I've been skipping class, and will stop doing so. Soon. I hope. I come home next weekend, and I hope that I will see you. I probably won't. I forget you're nocturnal sometimes. I hope I don't cry during work this week. The list of unimportant sentences, filled with long pauses and lots of ums and ers goes on, until I realize you are definitely asleep. I pause for a moment, wondering if you are awake enough to notice the absence of sound, but you say nothing. I say your name, twice, quietly. Still nothing. Part of me wants to hang up, but I can't quite bear to let go of the sound of your breathing on the other end. I have not felt this reluctant to sever a connection since R, and that was a long time ago. So instead, while you sleep, I tell you all the things I cannot say while you're awake.

"I'm glad you're sleeping," I start, softly. "You don't do that enough. And it's odd--I don't usually get to tell these things to people straight out while they're asleep. But you can't hear me anyway. I'm probably talking to your shoulder.

"I miss you, and I'm sorry that I'm part of what's making you hurt. It isn't supposed to be like that. And I hope it stops hurting soon, and the things that can be fixed will be fixed. I hope time heals the rest, quicker than it usually does.

"I always say these things too fast, and I regret them... but I regret them more if I don't." My voice catches for a moment, and even though I know you are dead to the world, and won't remember a single thing I say in the morning, it takes a second to get my throat to unstick enough to keep going. "I love you. I really do. And I know that doesn't help, and it's not making anything less complicated, but I love you very much. I'm sorry that you're hurting. I hope that you'll let me help. And I know you can't hear me, which probably makes me a coward, but I want you to know how much I care about you, and how I would give anything to take that hole out of your chest. I'd even put it inside my own if there wasn't one already there."

I am thinking of R, of all the scars--intentional and not--he left inside my head. Of all the times I thought I would grow old with him. Of the dark-haired, green-eyed baby boy who only existed in my nightmares, crying for me. I am thinking of Persephone, and of pomegranate seeds shriveling on a cold tile floor, with an aquamarine ring that is gathering dust in a box somewhere. I am thinking of all the reasons I am not good for you, and all the time I will spend missing you anyway. I'm thinking of your lips and your hands and the way you kissed me for the very first time on Christmas morning. My voice is the one on the verge of breaking now.

"I love you," I say again, to ears too deep in sleep to hear. "And maybe, eventually, I'll be able to say that to you when I'm awake, even though it doesn't mean anything. Until then, sleep well. And have sweet dreams, lover. The very sweetest of dreams."

I hang up, and it isn't until an hour later, when I have tried to fit all the pieces together, to line them up like books on a shelf, like words on a page, that I actually begin to cry.