A Little Further Away From Me

Since you ended it, slept with my best friend, published secrets about me to gain status, I’ve accepted we’re not an aquarium meet, an accidental street bump which romantic comedy ends us at the same address.

If there are 7 stages, steps, tick boxes to log and work through, I’ve done it, and some I’ve completed more than once. I didn’t cling to concepts past, to versions you were clear were fictions, temporary incarnations. I moved on with a number of men, and I moved back through some who, inappropriate the first time, looked promising like a Spiderman reboot, but essentially, what extra is there? Where’s the worth?

And you might think Batman worked, but in fifty years somebody’s son, grandson’s going to remake or boot it and you’ll curse the Christian Bale choice, because hindsight makes us all look shit. And I wish I said granddaughter, that it could stand, turn in 2062, but who the fuck am I kidding?

If something doesn’t change, move against it, because nothing’s constant: even stone statues melt.

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I Am Waiting For Something To Go Wrong

You might think an interview process with ex-girlfriends and current ones would be easy and sticky like napkin-less takeaways you eat walking. They whisper when you leave rooms and you know this because they do it when you come back in, too. And you use verbal placation, the same sentences appropriate for both people, because although those you date are different, have dated yearly, for weeks or just days, they have essential commonalities, understand each tone of you, hear it right down to the cages of ribs and the swellings of organs which shouldn’t swell and you should see a doctor for. Things which swell aren’t always euphemisms. But you don’t see doctors, and you enter into situations such as this, a girlfriend and an old one and a low spoke tension and physical lies and an unclenchable feeling that some times shouldn’t collide and timelines aren’t reversible and you wouldn’t be a traveller if it meant reliving anything because why date up when you can date down, in age, anyway. And the thrill of each ending was a story you wanted to tell, irregardless of notches, numbered on wood, before you’re dead, or after it. They’ll talk then. They’ll talk then. They talk right now.

I Am Waiting for Familiar Resolve

Jack says, “It didn’t go anywhere,” and I say, ” I kind of like that,” and Jack says, “It built to no crescendo,” and I say, “It built though. There was something. A gradual progression, a stuttered climb, cluttered with faux philosophy and obscure sexual references, but it was still fairly steady, I think.”

We watch Shame and decide that the two inter-spliced might make a satisfying narrative that was visually subdued and stunning at the same time.

In bed after Jack says, “I’d still want something to happen. I’ll always be waiting. And everything interim will never be enough.” But I’m the opposite. I stopped waiting for something because life is a series of circles in which it’s better to end up without what you want if you want productivity, if you’re after profundity, if you want a shot at prolificacy. We sleep at different angles, me with my arm under my head, and at two a.m., or a quarter to three, it’s completely numb, as though it was never there at all.

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