You were suspicious of me once, when Jack was here, when Jackie was, and you asked outright, or after 8 texts to friends and your mother. You always text your mum.
And the conversation lasted past both our bedtimes – my 11pm, your 12.30. And you cancelled Saturday morning coffee, there weren’t movies, and Sunday wasn’t an out-of-town aquarium, an over-the-border shopping centre. Instead you silenced every phone call I made, even when we were in the same room.
I’m getting your attention, securing your eyes, buying gifts to extinguish ex-girlfriends I fucked and others I slept with and I wonder if there’s a quota, of women you cope knowing that I’ve been with. And if there is, am I over it? Am I over the amount, or will another 8 days, 14 or 4 erase your fish memory that forgets what I made you for breakfast. Should I be worried about that?
Disallowed from slipping your shoes off, checking your scalp through your hair.
This is not a story with a beginning, a middle, or end, because the start wasn’t the start of something, and there’s no such thing as a clean middle, because middles are intestines, and the end we don’t touch however we try, and when we’re close, we want to live, just let us the fuck live for a second, to see every second you swore we’d see you lying ____.