in the story i would write about us,
i would be the pretty one,
and you wouldn't have left the room
to smoke a cigarette.

i spend much of my time in the bathroom these days,
having fake conversations with you
while i'm on the toilet
because the last time you heard what i said
we were drinking in there,
trying to get away from everyone else.

now when you hear people walking downstairs
you go to them and they are short-haired
and more experienced and waiting for
new disappointments to linger on their tongues
and not remember their names.

in a stronger person's voice
i would tell you that i wasn't going to see you again,
and that this was too hard,
and i'd ask you what it meant
when you said i knocked you from your high-horse.

but you see, it's hard for me
because you love me in a way that's painfully unsure
and clumsy.
two shaking hands do not make for sturdy embracing.

once, at the kitchen table you
tilted your head and repeated
"your eyes, your eyes, your eyes."

i blushed deep red and turned away,
but in the story i would write of us
i'd have kept them open.
would have remembered what your face
was saying to me then.

09/12/2009

Posted on 09/13/2009
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