If my breakup made the news and there was speculation as to who I’d date next I’d hide out on an island with every ex-boyfriend I could convince to come with me.
You’d be an easy draw, first RSVP, an email, a text, short call, not even a letter. In fact, you’d be awaiting announcements, from Day One to present day, sure that fault-lines effect not just earth but my underskirt, understudy (the girl you see in almost every photo of me), under-eye-skin, conscience.
I was never quite sure my religion, which my religion was, until I was sure and knew it was not text book, a modern day creation. You, who Sellotaped Rosary beads when they snapped, once.
Every other piece of news is tea-making time and that, this, relationship is the whir of a plan to kickstart a career that never should’ve veered, from TV.
I won’t waver. Change, you sense like strangers’ star signs, like the contents of meals in restaurants, spice slipped.
Once, we got drunk together. We forget it happened, won’t mention imprints the other left.
I’ve been alone, often, and in six years you’re the only. In bed your legs look like Alicia Silverstone’s on the cover of Clueless and don’t just say that’s a viewpoint. I’ve seen you standing up too.
I like your back best, shirts skimming shoulder bones, unkempt weight. We’re not even programmed to remember what we’ve seen most, necessarily. I worked at Subway for six years and all that’s left is the smell, lingering in pits of cotton.
I watch my trailer door, even when you’re not coming. I want you to come, believe I’m not the 2006 version. That was years and so much has changed, that I know you feel in contours, cards. I’ve read your blog. And if James Van Der Beek’s due a revival, why not me?