on playing tricks


She said the message was in the edges. The closer you could get to it, the clearer it would be. So, I spent my good years walking slowly and careful near the most dangerous edges I could find. I burned you just be sure I was right, just to remember I was there. I’ve noticed lately people getting along for the good sake of it, but it doesn’t seem honest and it doesn’t feel fair.

I write a lot about what it means to be in winter because it feels like revisiting an old lover. I write a lot about revisiting old lovers because they remind me of winter. I attach memories of people to the places they dwelled while I made love to them. I can tell you all about the loft apartment you had the one summer I came home, the one with the window in the shower and no air conditioning. I can tell you about your parents basement. Physical objects lately feel like time capsules, they talk to me about holding memories. The blue glass near the bed, the harmonica holder on top of the piano.

I’ve been worried lately this year won’t teach me anything new. But then I feel like I’ve already learned that is not true. I’ve been whoring out my writing lately and I wonder if that makes it cheap. I wonder if it takes something away from the words when I lend them out. Whoring versus hoarding. There is no middle ground. The carpet in the hallway needs to be replaced I can still the stain from when I spilled the glass of red wine right after we moved in. You keep on saying I am the only one who can see it. Only I can see it, because I already know it is there. Am I tricking myself again? Am I tricking you?

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