these are the wasted years. she looks up at me, confused. paused, with her head tilted, as though half a moment ago a subtle force had taken a cellphone from her ear. i lower my gaze.
robert smith fills my lips. i know i'm on a bridge because i am looking down the barrel of a river.
pieces of the narrative:
a phonograph without a needle.
mud-stained gauze.
a 60 of old english.
the scent of jasmine.
the brady machine, beeping.
pages torn from gone with the wind, taped to the wall.
daphne in white leather.
red wine in a pewter cup.
the static pop of a kiss over the phone.
i try to see myself in the dark. a silhouette, a rorschach of myself spread against the mirror. i am a butterfly. i am a tree. i am a pair of lungs. i misinterpret. switch person: you can't comprehend the symmetry of your life. turn on the lights and cry.
obsessing on the negative space: maybe we're like water when it comes to love. we have no concept of anything that we haven't drowned and consumed.
kate and i walked passed the sea and shared the sunset in a clear plastic cup.