my kind of story.

I sit in your kitchen, sometimes on the counter but mostly on the floor because this is how I want to remember myself during these days. The last letter you wrote me is on the same stationary as the first letter you wrote me. It makes me think about coincidences and the first time we went to the movies in that old theater and you put your hand my leg like it belonged there. Sometimes I think it’s romantic that we are separated by nothing but bodies of water or just thin walls, depending on which poem you read. You told me it looked like trying. I kept on asking where you go when you go where you go but I’m sure now it just makes you go further. All of the sudden everything bears weight and while I recognize it’s unfair to say “all of the sudden” – I learned lately that not speaking does more damage than anything else. The rice ignored tends to rot.

I’m getting off on the notion that I never knew anything and getting along with myself best because I know it’s true. When I get up in the middle of the night I sweat behind the knees because it’s always too hot or too cold. You are always too hot or too cold. We talk about writing poems by getting rid of the other words. And we talk about how we know the story starts because things start to suck. I get anxious in the mornings and I have to count things when my right hand starts to shake. You don’t ask very many questions and I liken your inevitable disappearance to a magician or a wizard or an apparition I will one day convince myself I made up because of the weather and the winter and the mess. In the movies they talk about love like it’s something to talk about, but I find words wont do this justice.