she's childish and dramatic. she thinks everything happens for a reason. i only see her sometimes, in mirrors and shards of broken glass on the floor. in the glare of headlights and the reflections in worn vinyl.
when we meet, we glare at each other, as entertainment -- the bull and the matador -- for the people sitting on saturn's rings.
the wind whistles, the birds sing, the trees say good morning, a tile cracks in the bathroom, a letter comes in the mail, then another, then twenty seven more and they all sit tied up in pretty purple ribbon, unopened, and a trailing ivy plant dies and she wails in the reflection of the water it never drew into it's roots. she grins through the wind in her teeth and waves a friendly hello to the trees, she curses porcelain and the need for purple ribbon.
mostly, i watch her -- disgusted and embarrassed. appalled at how she can let things affect her as much as she does.
and the times apart from the mostly, she is nowhere to be found. i look for her in clean bowls and faucets and candles and diary entries. and she is silent, and i realize that we are two sides of the same coin. if i really need her, she can usually be found in freshly opened letters, waiting and angry.
but i worry at some point that i will not be able to find her there either -- that she will not be anywhere at all. and maybe then i'll understand. maybe i'll understand, in her absence, why she could not be embarrassed for herself -- why i had to feel that for her. maybe it was because she never had any reason to be embarrassed in the first place.
YOU ARE READING
me, fumbling over commas
Poesíai don't know how to describe this. it's nothing, really. or maybe too much of a couple different things.
