| better words . . . . here there and everywhere |
A conversation four nights ago. You tried to sound light-hearted, the way your voice bounced and paused. "It was so long ago, and we were so self-involved" you said, or something like it. I nodded and agreed, only to make you comfortable, only to see how far you'd go. It wasn't far enough. * * There's nothing worse than reading other people's break-up stories, feeling our own end in them. Could this be us in a year? A month? Will I find myself writing about it, writing about the things that used to annoy me that I would miss--whiskers stuck to the sink, a dirty towel in the middle of the floor and all the other traces of you that would disappear. (I can't imagine your whiskers in any other sink but ours... is this a sign? Does this mean it's real?) That's it. I'm hiding your toothbrush. You can't leave without your toothbrush, right? |
better places . . . . over under and through |