I tried to write something tonight. In sentences that seem knowing. It felt as it should feel: cold. But I don’t want to feel that. So now I’m thinking about you. Always with a sense of something I dare not call regret.
I saw a picture of a man who reminded me of you. And I looked for more and more pictures of him. Lingered over them. In a way I cannot linger over a picture of you. I wondered about his living and his loving. As I cannot permit myself to wonder about your living and your loving.
I think you are still in my phone. But if I allow myself to check, I might call you.
I could re-write this to sound like a bad pop song written by an unimaginative lyricist. I could re-write this to make feeling seem less desolate, less predictable, less banal. And I might re-write it to emphasize the disorganized I who is writing – the I who is not me. Maybe once was. Maybe slips through every so often.
Something is anarranged.
I have been experiencing seasonal hunger pangs, but with a particular bite this time. For a long time I knew that the choice had been the right one. But the rightness of the choice does not diminish the tax burden. Nor is hunger assuaged by knowing the rightness of what had to be done.
I no longer say your name.
I speak of phantoms.
Feelings are not waves. They pulse in odd moments, appear as pangs, seek recognition. Perhaps I am just hungry. Lust is always a convenient misrecognition.
Something had become unbearable in the collapse of then and tomorrow, a bridge that now made forever impossible. You saw futures and I saw metaphors. Narrative came so much easier to you—it still does.
I spoke mellifluously to escape the chasm between sentences. Leaping from word to word to avoid falling into the fractures your sentences created. I could not be in your story.
And so I asked you about flowers and tea and shared indifferent sex.
And, in the language available said something that would break you, thinking it would free me.
A pang remains.