I phone you back because we’re never done, especially when we say we are, which is why every goodbye’s thirty minutes long; it’s impossible to package us neatly up, like a suctioned haggis, metal ties on the end to keep fresh.
I can’t compile us like an essay collection or tea set for the charity. As a Collected Works we’d maybe make sense, and we’re not nonsensical now, only, there’s always more, especially when we out loud state there won’t be.
We plan Thanksgiving in September, though you hate celebration as much as existentialism, which you hardly hate at all, just you’re not a fan of the quivering limbo it tram seat sits you in, and you can’t get off between stops. Uncertainty’s the kicker.
You text me back when the call’s missed and the call ends more than once, and four hours feels like six minutes, and I know it’s never over: I know it never is.
I kissed someone else. And any actual feeling which wasn’t a ploy was a willing casualty. And, the family you’re from, you better than anyone understand what compromise is: a daily occurrence, not a prison sentence because even they eventually end, mostly.
Months later, once you’ve fucked my friends and I, yours, when you’d think it too late to try you ask, “What if?” and the boyfriend box with your name on it which I loft-shoved, barely saved from setting light, changes status. Trinkets waning in and out of use.
You sold us all out, thinking you were her rescuer, the only one looking for her. And for these years, 154, you’ve waited, sure she was stuck, and aside from seeing mortals play out succinctly, you’ve meditated only on her release and how you’d orchestrate it.
But she was never in there. And she never once returned to tell you that. She could’ve called, written, texted if she knows how, but maybe she doesn’t. Not all technology’s an easy sell when you’re set on something else entirely.
She could look like Madonna now, and I’m never completely sure how Madonna looks now because she evolves quicker than tap water: some days it tastes like chlorine, others bi-carbonate. There’s salt collecting in your teeth dips.