106

Like the hills, if they spoke. Like the coast, if it spoke. They don’t make eye contact. In an airport terminal, people watching to pass the time. The bar hasn’t opened yet but I’m still nursing a hangover. Packed on the floor. I cannot remember what you did. Woke up when I fell asleep. Always in the study, the dog around our legs. Like heat, like sweat. And it’s been a while. I’d go for a walk, ask kids for a light. Found a scorpion, cliche to talk about infertility. And years pass and we’re back again. My car broke down outside of a Mexican restaurant. Got a jump. Wanted to give you a call, talk about Michigan. Or Pennsylvania or your shadow against my walls. Our paper only has bad news so I put it down.
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A shift. I just want to straighten it out. We spent your paycheck on groceries. Out of candles, still tense in the kitchen. It’s not filling. We joke about food poisoning, the meat we hope hasn’t spoiled. And so many of those nights, always hungry. We always asked where each other bad been like a revelation would wind us back up.