You dyed your hair red and then had that creep
from the forty-second floor install an electric chair
in the living room.

Don’t think I’m not onto you. I’m well aware
that you’ve got a deep freeze in the bedroom
and anywhere from three to fifty charming suitors
coming by that middle-of-nowhere skyscraper
via
Greyhound on a daily basis.

Don’t think I haven’t written
some pretty compelling stuff
about that wild smile of yours. I’ve seen the damage
you can do to the city streets when there’s a little religion
running through that Chicago heart of yours.

You always know what you’re doing. The steam
rises from all that narrative in the ground
and everything new is old,
tired again, chattering like a demented veteran
of the stage. I swear to God that only people like you
know how to make that happen.

I’m well aware we got engaged
under false pretenses. The judgment call was mine
to make, and I shouldn’t have let you
settle on what made up our first date.

Something tells me
the signals mixed with wine and fire,
and I pretty much
just lost my damn head. Takes everything
I’ve half-learned to stand up to how stupid I tend to be
when the weekends begin to slow down and speak
the same five lines of gibberish
with the same occasional moments of static interruption.

You knew I was tired,
weak and a little bloody
from all those apologies I’ve nailed
to all of those doors. It’s amazing,
you know, how many times a persona can crush their fingers
and not feel a thing because they don’t actually wake up
until ten.

You knew I was about five years old
the first time I fell in love with a real headache.

This has all been discussed
in therapy. I’ve gotten used to seeing
her four times a week.

Most of the time we play Super Nintendo
and drink whiskey from water bottles.

It helps. It works an assortment of wonders
and gets me ready for your usual habit
of turning up in the middle of the night
to break my neck in half.

I don’t even think
you’re into it anymore.

Strange how the memory
is fiercer than the physical presence.

Look at these movie makeup bite marks,
for crying out loud.

01/25/2010

Posted on 01/25/2010
Copyright © 2025 Gabriel Ricard