Felt so sticky
I got up in the middle of the night
With swollen eyes and swollen resentment
To hum restless music
And change my sheets

I imagine the scene
Where I'll stand, stubbing out
An old cigarette on grey gravel
With the toes of my shoes
And finally dig my nails into
That sweet and thoughtful persona of yours
That lets me eat your mistakes
And the restless music buzzes through the gravel
Outside the hookah bar we go to
To pretend like we're sitting still
We stand in silence for the song to end
But restless music never seems to end

Weeks later, I'll sit up nights
And tell myself I was nothing but sweet to you
Nothing!
Sprawl out nights
And stick to my sheets
And absorb restless music
And nothing ever seems to end

Our hollow tidal pools
Wash back and forth between
Stagnant and violent
Timed like clockwork
And like somehow the ancients knew
The ocean to be in love with the moon
I know I am in love with disaster
There are no other ways to explain
The way the laughter gave way
To the sound of my body hitting the carpet
Kicking and yelling and grabbing at hair
To the sitting and waiting alone
For footsteps to come and strangle the silence
"You're a mess," was all she could tell me
In the soft voice of the lull between
Except that I make her sick
And waves will break on our startled hollows
Made only of sand and salty sickness

This was the last time we had a routine.  All the way back then, wearing ******* rubber boots and cashmere scarves I can’t even think of wearing in the near future.  It was a routine.  You could count on it; guaranteed to inch you closer to handsandknees and sleepsixteenhours every time we saw each other.

It’s been a while since we had a routine, and now we just sit together sometimes and don’t know what to say.

I’m not like most people–I’ll admit to loving a good routine.

I was just silent.

And maybe it was mean to be so silent, but the weight of the future is just a little bit too heavy, and maybe I like you a little bit too much.

The best things were happening, but they were happening all at once, so that they were worst and all the colors were running together, making me feel like I was soon to need new glasses, or a new brain, or a whole new perspective.

And your words aren’t enough; I have all kinds of words, and you wouldn’t believe how many it takes to make a difference.

I realized I'd never really visited a hospital bed.
I'd been once for the birth of my sister,
but all I remember are the boxes of krispy kreme doughnuts
and my aunt, who'd not yet had a child of her own,
scolding and snapping at my brother and I
just four and five
to stop playing with my mother's adjustable bed.
And I remember the face of my grandmother,
joyous, though not quite smiling;
but perhaps I remember her that way
because I was always a little bit afraid of her,
and still was when she died six years later.
But it was sudden, and she didn't even make it to the hospital.
I don't even remember my sister herself,
or my mother,
just her bed and trying to climb into it.

But now here I was,
filing past the numbered blue doors
in the halls that didn't smell like sickness
or loneliness or anything poetic at all--
just cafeteria food, close and a bit *****.

In the room, there are two women
lying on their beds, each watching a TV.
They are watching the same show,
but they are each wearing a set of headphones
and watching separate screens.
It looks a bit lonely
and I wonder if maybe they'd like to watch it together.

I kiss her hello
and her eyes are watery, her voice broken;
but I am assured this is not her normal state.
but it's the only way I've ever seen her,
so it's hard to imagine her otherwise.
There's a kiwi and an empty yogurt cup on the table
and I start to zone out,
probably wondering whether they're from her lunch
or already her dinner.

But I let my mind wander
and soon I'm picturing everyone I know in turn
lying in a hospital bed.
One is missing all her hair,
another has an IV,
and I ask myself which ones I would visit.

The woman in the bed is smiling crookedly;
I've been told the tube in her arm is morphine,
and she's speaking about the dinner she had at our house
while my french sister assures her that we'll do it again
when her four days of rest are up.

And I go back to my game.
It's a bit cruel, maybe,
but life, I think,
is all a story of sickness
and who would visit you,
brave the stale air of your hospital room
and tell you stories of the future.

I keep trying to move my mind up the ladder rungs, following the logical successions, but they don’t follow you.  Sorry.

I remember that breakfast we had of yesterday’s coffee and a chunk of yesterday’s bread, and I was thinking about what we were doing and why and whether I could do it without you.  I know you think about that too.

Sometimes I feel like a little sprite winking in and out of people’s lives, leaving (I hope) a little spark in the wake, but you can’t quite remember what the spark was for.  Sometimes I can’t either.

And the road gets dusty and we get ***** and we start to cough, for last night’s cigarettes and last night’s arguments, and something in the air makes us forget that it was ever any easier to breathe.  Why go back?

Motivation is a hard thing to preserve.  You could try putting it in the freezer, but I’m not sure that the cold would help.  At least it’s doubtful that it would help me.  And you never know what you’ll have when it thaws.

I know you said you weren’t promising anything, but I’m counting it as a promise anyway, because in any case, that’s better than the metaphorical freezer.  Don’t break it and I won’t break you.  Got that?

I saw you bloom in winter,
bright, luminescent, the silk of fresh petals.
And I never bought any gloves, though I said I would;
hands all but frozen,
canvas shoes damp through
in the mud and wet of a french winter on the coast.
But you looked hardly discouraged,
fresh and new under the rain.
You amaze me still.
And I am never prepared anymore:
I left my pocket knife across the ocean
and my hat in a friend's purse in another city.
I wasn't ready to see you
arrayed in all your enthusiasm;
wasn't ready to pick you,
place you next to my bed
and tell you all my midwinter thoughts each morning.
I walked past, left you in the park,
asked myself why I thought you'd opened for me.
I'll think of you at Christmas, and at New Year's,
and there will be others, poinsettias and orchids.
But you showed yourself to me in the park, in that cold rain.
You
you amaze me still.