Nov 2015
i. afternoon. coffee slops over the edge of your cup as you set it down. we stare at the wreckage. i won’t clean it up.
ii. i hold your head in my hands, jumper paws swinging like empty wine skins. you lean into my touch, though i know you don’t want to. it is instinctive, this gesture; instinctive like coasters on tabletops and welcome mats at front doors. we don’t own either of these things. maybe this is why we began falling apart.
iii. the pantry is empty and darkness swallows you as you open the door. the grocery list lies untouched on the counter. i was meant to shop yesterday but i spent the day in our room. you take the list and hold it to my face, so close the letters blur. the paper shakes; your hand shakes. we are disintegrating, like so many old stars.
iv. i don’t know how to live with us anymore. you have forgotten.
v. you leave with the morning sun. i wake to a wiped clean countertop, coffee cup rinsed in the sink. the pantry is full. i don’t even know that you’re gone.
ii. i hold your head in my hands, jumper paws swinging like empty wine skins. you lean into my touch, though i know you don’t want to. it is instinctive, this gesture; instinctive like coasters on tabletops and welcome mats at front doors. we don’t own either of these things. maybe this is why we began falling apart.
iii. the pantry is empty and darkness swallows you as you open the door. the grocery list lies untouched on the counter. i was meant to shop yesterday but i spent the day in our room. you take the list and hold it to my face, so close the letters blur. the paper shakes; your hand shakes. we are disintegrating, like so many old stars.
iv. i don’t know how to live with us anymore. you have forgotten.
v. you leave with the morning sun. i wake to a wiped clean countertop, coffee cup rinsed in the sink. the pantry is full. i don’t even know that you’re gone.
