Sometimes I will wake up to find that he is still sleeping. His face will be calm or, if I am exceedingly lucky, there will be the smallest smile upon his lips. On those days I will wait, I will watch as he slowly wakes. I will kiss him and he will smile, not with his lips but with his eyes. And I will be happy because of the glow I see in those blue eyes.
On those days he will chose his own clothing, picking out those that fit him, which cling to his form. Perhaps I will catch him looking in the mirror as he brushes his hair.
As always I will guide him, leading him down the stairs to our breakfast table. On those good days he will eat, picking out his favorite food. I am always the one who carries the conversation, but on those days he will speak with me and, if we are lucky, then he will laugh.
On those rare golden days he will leave the table and open the windows so that the sun shines in upon his sanctuary. He will sit and push back the cover of his piano. With a smile on his face he will bring forth the most beautiful music.
On a good day the wreckage will be hidden away, on a good day he will float above the world, far away from the memories. On a good day he seemed to forget his nightmares and it was as if he had finally figured out how to move on. On those days he will be able to sleep when night falls.
On a good day he doesn't come undone.
But most days I would wake to find him screaming. I would hold him tightly as he fought with his memories. His face would be twisted in remembered pain. He will claw and he will fight, but he will not be able to lock away his emotions.
When I managed to wake him the screams would cease. He would cling to me, sobs shaking his thin frame. I will kiss him as he cries, I will tell him that I love him. He will smile but his eyes will not. He will almost fall into my arms when finally we rise from the bed. I will comb his hair, because he will be too busy hiding his face from the mirror. I will dress him in the other set of clothing, the large shirts and pants which hang off his frail frame and give him another place to hide.
I will guide him to the breakfast table. His arms will wrap around himself as my hand rests on his shoulder, not quite pushing, but not quite resting. On those days I will struggle to feed him, always worried that he hasn't gotten enough to eat. He never does eat on those days. If I speak he will not answer, except maybe to nod or shake his head.
On those days the curtains will remain closed, unless there is a rainstorm. If there is rain then he will press himself to the window, watching the falling rain for hours. If there is no rain then often he will just sit, on the floor, for hours. When this happens I do not leave him, although many people have told me I should.
Eventually he will rise, slowly he will get to his feet and practically stumble over to the piano. Often I must help him to do this, for on the bad days all his strength seems to leave him. On those days the music which comes tumbling out of his soul is still beautiful, but the sorrow in his song is almost more then I can bear.
On a bad day no amount of light can help you read his face, no amount of knowledge will allow you to understand him.
These are the bad days, the frequent days, the times when he can not escape his nightmares. These are the days when nothing I do has a positive effect. These are the days when his memories are too much and his soul snaps under the load.
My friends, the few that remain, seem to believe that the good days make up for the bad ones. They believe that I tolerate my lover's "insanity" for the days when he smiles and offers us beautiful music to the heavens. They could not be more wrong.
I do love the days when he smiles, the days when we can talk and when he can laugh and for once look as young as he truly is. But the truth of the matter is that, if he only had good days, if every day was filled with his smiles and laughter, then I would not be in love with him, or at least not as deeply in love.
He and I both know that the bad days are what defines us, he and I both wish that those memories, those nightmares were gone, were erased from his mind… but we chose to cherish them instead.