Jack thinks I’ll forget, that he can pick up a year from now, two years later, with only crimes erased, erroneous decision-making, so all positives become fateful, like both knowing the words to Stay by Lisa Loeb or reading the same play once or dreams about men living in air pockets between the waves and water, and a smoke trail between tongues like string for torturing and last night’s drinks lacing today’s t-shirt and gravel stabbed in soles from long walks home post 2 a.m. and an absolute uncertainty in the questions asked of you, because, “Will you move?” drunk isn’t, “Move in with me,” is it? But apparently, Jack says, not knowing the intonation well enough to understand the actual meaning of it is a steal destiny sort of a move which fucks up end points and is the reason he left in the first place or didn’t re-ask, or definitely ask, or make clear or sober for a second to say, “Come with me now.”
When everyone else is dead, let’s Facetime, forget that they mattered once, and the week long crush, that might have been a month, won’t become a regret now they’re gone, and the miles that matter to us are inflicted moves that graduate, completion and win, committ, and I’d pour credit into petrol if it meant we were seconds closer than four hours, that didn’t involve trucks and trains.
My face is a rectangle bed stick, like sleeping together, this is.
You couldn’t guess your wife’s name before you met her and now you know it, since you married, you wish you could forget, know that moments clasping the air for words are full of hope whereas this, well, isn’t.
You couldn’t agree on kids, didn’t discuss god, aren’t exactly sure what TV the other watches (you think Dawson’s Creek is a place people go like the Grand Canyon, Palm Springs), don’t know if you ever read the same book – at school or for the hell of it. You don’t know if she ever does things for the hell of it; the regime at your address is an alarm set, a clock flashing.
She wakes before you, and the first few moments, eyes open, she watches your crows’ feet twitch. In the shower, she cancer-checks her breasts as seductively as possible. She thinks about Gemma, Tim. Follows alternate paths she could’ve taken: kissing Paula, fucking Paul.
She’s one thing you can’t fix. She doesn’t want fixing and the fact you’re inclined to try is your fault, a fault of yours, an eternal error. You couldn’t cup her in your palms how you could cake and you can’t pull that ring off without pinning her down, which always ends in police. Your mistakes your mistakes your mistakes are dialogue.