The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
I wish you could just be honest about how you feel because right now my brain is tied in knots and I feel like a complete goon. I don’t care if all you have to say is “I made a mistake. I don’t want to do this.” That would be perfectly fine and definitely better than this ambiguous crap.
That being said, I like you and I hope you come around.
Seriously though, cut the shit.
You are a profoundly good human being and I am glad that I’ve had the chance to talk to you and sing with you and make strange animal noises with you so often.
I want to sit in your kitchen and watch you cook and listen to everything you have to say about anything.
What part of this situation do you think is going to work out well? I would love to be inside your head during your decision making process.
You are an enigma.
❝ It’s a mystery of human chemistry and I don’t understand it. Some people, as far as their senses are concerned, just feel like home.
The last time I appologized
It was late and we were on the roof talking about books we both liked and things we wanted to do someday and times when we didn’t know each other yet but we were feeling the same things.
I don’t remember how it came up. I think it was my fault. You waited patiently for me to find the words.
I didn’t know what to do with my hands.
They found my elbows, my collarbone, the insides of my pockets.
Across the street, my neighbor turned on his porch light, came outside and lit a cigarette.
There wasn’t much else to say and it was almost morning so we crawled back through my window and onto my bed and I fell asleep wrapped in you and woke up to you gone.