Thursday, July 9, 2009

A letter to a former me

The right words can travel through time, and it’s never the ones you want. I love you and you bring a joy to my life where there was none, those words stay put, inert in time and space. You look beautiful today is a dead sentence without legs beyond the moment. But oh, you don’t even know what’s going to come sprawling backwards from a future you couldn’t even fathom while you sat here with her drinking coffee on the couch thinking I’m going to kiss her now or in a minute.

You don’t know it, but there’s poison in the air, an infection. I never needed you is sitting between the two of you on that cerulean couch cushion. If I have to choose I choose swirls in the ochre of your chipped tiki mug. Time travelers! Invisible sentences! But there nonetheless, stretched out over the entire span of the two of you, filmy and rough to the touch, standing ready to make sure you don’t even have good memories left when you walk away, which that’s all you’re going to want. Just wait until the pictures develop.

Go on, lean in for that kiss. I could say be careful, but I know you won’t be careful. You’ll still be drunk today like I am with the sun coming up thinking of this moment and seeing plainly the words my problems fell away when I was with him stitched into her eyebrows furrowed while she stared at something, you didn’t know what. She was staring at the things that you are going to say. Try not to know that when you put your hand at the nape of her neck and draw her in.

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