Baby, you can lay there.

Baby, you don’t have to go out. Your friends seem to want you too, though.

I want to be forgotten, yet remembered. I want to be the one to poison my ego, not them. Why aren’t they sad about me being sad? Hell, is she? But really, how are they so happy when I can’t seem to be? What don’t I understand?

Baby, you dragged me to that used CD shop and your face lit up and you picked up this Terence Trent D’Arby album. I don’t know how you came to know about him, but you put this in my hands and…your face; baby your mouth curved up at one end. It wasn’t a smile but…but I have to take what I can get. You handed this to me and held your hands out. You weren’t begging, but you darted your eyes back and forth between the CD case and the counter, just hoping. And I didn’t think twice about it; anything to give you happiness is a small price to pay…

Music has dictated my mood for as long as I can remember. It’s emboldened me enough to throw eggs through your windshields. It’s infused me with enough confidence to saunter up behind your girlfriend at a pre-dawn. It’s blared through my headphones on the train, helping me forget that where I arrive is a stop, and not a destination. It’s helped me to believe, to dream, to cry, to pontificate, to seduce…to fucking smile. Knowing that, why can’t it get me off this couch?

Baby, I want to see you smiling. I-I just don’t know what to do and I can’t lie to you; I wish that I could, because seeing you like this makes me sad.

I remember when you would run around my office building, selling your paintings and writings to my coworkers for fifty cents. They couldn’t believe anybody so young had the confidence you had, baby…

I remember how much Christmas meant to you; baby, I would hang your stocking up over the TV and watch your face when you reached in it for our 12 days of Christmas. I used to cringe when you would go up that ladder to hang lights on our gutters, but you smiled the entire time and I just, I..uh…I don’t know where that kid went. 

Maybe I’ve been insensitive. Maybe I just don’t understand. I don’t know. I just miss my baby. 

The television illuminated the room, as it was the only light that flowed in, even in the midday. The shades were completely drawn closed. The sight of barren lawns and naked shrubbery only served as conduits and understandable excuses. That TV failed to brighten anything other than my complete disinterest.

Baby, what happened?

Baby…please, PLEASE tell me how I can help you. 

…I ju…I just don’t know what to do, Joan. He won’t move. No…he hasn’t said much of anything. My baby is hurting and I don’t know…I-I don’t know, Joan…

The sun’s sudden intensity shone directly on my face, making my lower eyelids flinch painfully upward, as they barely had to shield my bloodshot eyes over the past week. Why was she still here? And- for the love of everything holy- why did she open these curtains??

My back yelled at me as I adjusted myself. My legs seemed to exhale as I straightened them out onto the arm of the couch. My neck resigned itself to an uncomfortable state of commiseration and had completely gone numb; it had no plans of returning during my sudden readjustment. My stomach growled, awakened at the idea that its’ host may not be dead after all. My shoulder, completely defying my brain’s wishes, relaxed at her touch.

Baby, I tried; I made an appointment for you. This isn’t you. Not this time of year. You aren’t yourself. I can’t force you to do shit but- for my health- please see this specialist I found. Happy birthday.

A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World Of Oddities