At this moment I wish I were packing for a different life. I’m not packing. He is.
Sorrow makes for some grand narrative claims, such as: I’ll never love this way again. My brain tells me that this is just a song. I tell my brain to shut the fuck up and let me bleed my tears on the emerald green scarf he gave me last year.
I am lying on the emerald green scarf on my woven mat on the floor in the dark or in the shade, where I have stayed for the best part of two days.
On the night of the last talk, I could not sleep, just lay on my side, curling. I didn’t get up all morning.
On the second night I dreamt of a vampire and a witch. How do you dispose of a corpse so that it never rises again? You strip the flesh from bone, cut the flesh into slivers, fry it with some octopus legs, add oyster sauce and vegetables, and eat it.
Stop crying your heart out, sings Liam Gallagher.
How convenient it is to despair during the holidays, when there is much work to catch up on, but no need to see anyone.
Tomorrow I am climbing a mountain. I have so often climbed mountains for sadness that the gesture no longer seems anthemic. But it still is as if I were visiting an old friend, one that neither judges nor comforts, only listens, saying nothing.
I have cried so much over you, I said.
I don’t know what to say, he said.
I hope you’d understand, he said.
I do, and I don’t.
Why aren’t I your _________, your _________, yours?
Why? I could repeat this question a hundred times, like a precocious child, and get only Because.
The ABCs of growing up, sings Imogen Heap.
All of the stars are fading away.
The coffee’s never strong enough.
We’ll be friends forever.