Monday, November 9, 2009

as yet untitled

in my (re)imagination, i had little to say and perhaps i relied on my hands too much.
i may have said too much. i always say too much.

i could only stare at that space between us as it grew and grew and grew.

he was angry and i understood.

strange, because i think of anger and i cannot quite accept it.
it seems to me a selfishness and a willing futility.
anger cares for no end and exhausts even itself.
i've no stomach for self-immolation.
i sense anger and i turn away.

but he was angry and i understood and with little to say, i stayed.
no one asks two people to make sense.
no one should ask two people to make sense.

it was midnight maybe and quiet because it was early.
we should have been anywhere else, this should have been years ago.
i was desperate to know how many minutes existed between his face and mine and it occurred to me - while i should have not been realizing, but maybe just for once just listening instead of trying to convert inches and wordlessness into minutes - that this was the collapse of our geography.
this would be the last of it: the buskers and the hippies and hustlers in the plaza that night at midnight in the middle of our walk with his anger and my idiot tongue for all the words i thought i knew and the branches of dead trees grasping onto that corner of the world for me and i stared anywhere else and heard the measure of my own breath finally settle over what laid long since broken there between us, aware quite suddenly of where i was and why and how, where else could it have been?

it was, of course, in the end and always, a week i made for keeping.

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