Sometimes, disappoint was adamant and the refusal of dinner expected and I could understand it. I didn’t know Beyoncé, wasn’t the Michelle they thought I’d be, and my misnaming was someone’s fault entirely, although I cultivate blame between breakfast and finishing it, and there’s a list of the unforgives and one of the almosts and I didn’t live through the nineties to end at a laundry sort of a situation which has me ironing underwear and bedsheets, things which don’t need ironing, basically.
And the break is a crooked kind of a garden ornament in someone’s decorative yard and it’s accidental apart from the affair which is only a half of an affair because watching and words are nothing, like, literally, nothing, and if you could handle the evaporation, the way days are forgetable minutes into the next, then there’s not a reason we can’t be us. Let’s be us. Forget every finger-fuck which happened in head only.
I reveal more in chat than when you accidentally insert your finger into my mouth when you’re feeding me a chocolate which they put on the saucer when you buy tea in Thornton’s. You think that this is a seductive move but your fingertip salt is a weird truffle mix, and makes me unsure of answers to later asked questions. The same question, asked in a chatroom, a video chat or just text, gets a different response. Then, there aren’t other suggestions from other people who don’t know you enough to comment but comment anyway because that’s their prerogative apparently and, then, I was impressionable like Vine Street cement, baked bread, black sand.
But in this chat, before the excuses I make on phones and in person, I basically say that I made a mistake in the lie that I told when I took back what I said really drunk to you. Because that’s exactly what I should have said, what I did say, and you shouldn’t have let me wrestle it out of your hands with such a simple Chinese-burn-trick. But you did.
So each intermittent year’s been an intermittent string of intermittently amusing messages on a messenger service, logged like a historical document, which only tells a side of the story, as history ever does. Who won?