january 13th 2024

for a while i enjoyed to believe that your life ended when i went away. but there you never stopped moving, being, happening—months of this progress, to reach a stable breath, to void me from the story. you dirtied your hands with me and then you managed to scrape me off. not even a stain. what if you knew: i’ve spent half of every moment thinking about you. a decision of whether i deplore you or need you blends together and away. there was no clear beginning and i cannot foresee an end. what would you know of my trembling shoulders as i eat—or my pages, collected in thousands in a mosaic screen library? what would you know about my state of mind? i am paper. i couldn’t survive past a breeze. if i saw you tomorrow i think i would die. where are you now, are you around the block? do you know, you took my city. i loved it once and you never did, never cared for the t if it couldn’t be the subway, or the way people walked or the way anything was. but i loved the sirens out my window. i loved the smoky park and the gazebo that has seen better days. the lights from the theater, the sidewalk conversations, the sun through the buildings thawing my face on the hill on a spring afternoon. i loved central square—i loved cheapo records, the diner by the bank, the hat rack at boomerang’s, the sunday used book sale in front of the church. do you know? my stomach turns. my vision flares. i cannot be anyplace. shoot me again! i want to be alive but i cannot share this earth with you. i was cursed to know that you’re here. i am not your dog, shoot me again. everyone can stand to be with you knowing what you did, but no one can stand me at all. i can’t return to how i’m supposed to be, how i need immediately to become, i can’t, but three months is enough time, and why should you occupy me now? i don’t know, god, i swear—i wish you’d never cross my mind. i’d be happily cleansed. yet there you are. you’re smoking a cigarette across the street, and you wouldn’t call me anymore.