justwrite 9 november

Sitting at this table I remember all of the tables before, the restaurants where you held my hand, and when you were a different who, and the table that we bought, the bouquet that was caught by some other hand. We planned and we saved but you raved about logos and pogo-sticks ticked me off. I scoffed at the outrage in your eyes, but no surprise came knocking when the clock stopped tocking. No talking to tick you off, no cameras holding pieces of resistance—we clicked them shut, we tied other knots. I remember some other November, the minutes pressed together and the breaths honey deep, sweet in the blankets of a stolen evening. Heaving breaths into cold dark, there were parks a-plenty and reasons never lacked. We collapsed with contentment in tents meant for summer, hovering hands into the invisible night. Catch this image, remember it, even as you turn away, away. We stray from each other even now, there are too many yous and too many Is. We try and we love and we shove ourselves away, closet space at a premium and nothing left to save. We paid debts and made promises, we have glamorous visions of the future, and we pass them away to other hands. Here, have this, keep it safe. We will never meet again. Sitting at this window I look out and I can see farther than I need to. We built trees out of mirrors and we found ourselves so tall. We found colors in our eyes and ideas in each others’ ears, listening closely and mostly understanding. Still, no one can have it all. It was never yours to give all of you. I was giving all of me and more that I found hidden in the dresser, in the garden, down the river, up the mountain. Here is more, in my hands. Strawberry jam and city parks by the lake. We made mistakes and we gave them back. I’m sorry I told you they didn’t exist. I’m sorry I pushed far and you couldn’t resist believing I was right. The night comes again, the day’s the same way. I am eating dinner and I am growing thinner, but the rainbows still are rumored to come true, with headlines and captions pointing toward the rapture—we’re so sure to find each other in the cave in the park then. We planned this from Colorado and also from right here, but the fear is bigger than the emptiness and the island has its own name, mainly existing unto itself. We imagine health is the opposite of disease, creation the suggestion that there is more and there can be much but we cup our hands together, me alone with my mirrored pool and you alone looking into someone else’s eyes, saying yes. There is no surprise, there is distance. There is a chance, and there is romance, and still we gamble for a seat at this table, able to let go and to flow where needed, lessons heeded and thanks given, driven toward motion and dying when still.