| better words . . . . here there and everywhere |
From across the table, with its empty coffee mugs and full ashtray, there is still so much to tell you. Three hours can go by and we haven't even gotten to the secrets yet. But we don't share secrets, just pauses and glances. Vague ones at that. I always leave so angry at myself for stopping short, for laughing away some hideously true and subtle revelation. Because there's no turning back, is there? I'll look at you, and you'll look at me, and everything will change forever. I'll never know what really happened to you at eleven. I think I know. Sort of. Not the who, the how, or why. Certainly none of the gruesome details, of course. And there are other things that we just don't talk about. You know things about me too. Sort of. It's the details that are the secrets we keep. And I understand that maybe we don't need to peer inside each other so deeply. But sometimes you remind me of a best friend I used to have, and I want to blurt everything out, and feel that rush of power and submission like I used to. But then again, maybe everything's fine the way it is. |
better places . . . . over under and through |