I was sitting on the couch - wrestling with the cat over a bowl of Grape Nuts - when I got to thinking about you. You, whoever you are anymore. What are you doing now? Are you in your new charming city hanging out with your new charming friends? I told that photographer your name, I know. And I know that I told him you're the most beautiful girl in the world, but I spoke of you as an anathema, a black witch!, the lowliest, rotten cunt on the pock-marked face of this shit-house planet, so if he looks you up - his throat is mine.
Maybe that's not true, though. Maybe I don't believe that anymore. Maybe you're not you anymore. Maybe you're at your brother's house, watching the game, eating that pasta you made, and had me try, and then looked at me pedantically when I told you I liked it. Maybe you were lying abreast to me in bed yesterday. Remember? I asked if you had any ambitions and you turned your head, showed me those full, monastic eyes and said: "no." Of course I can't ever tell you this, but I nearly let three foolish words slip out of my mouth in that moment. I doubt I would've really meant it in the poetic/despotic way, but I would've really meant it in that moment. Sometimes you're you, but only for a moment. Oh! how wonderfully trite: the ephemeral you!
There is a cruel, ironic reality I must face: I can only write well when I'm fucking miserable. And the moment I realize this another epiphany drops from the sky like a crashing piano: I love these words and these lines far more than I'll love anything else. They are me: clumsy, barely understood, heinously temperamental and existing only in short-lived, sporadic bursts of decadence and full-blown schizophrenic egotism. But most of all they're just dying to get out.
Not quite ready to be yours,
Me.
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