rain/red
rain
where does unraveling go? you comb for small change
on the bottom of your bag and there's the stitching torn apart and a world
of crumbs underneath, of leaking pens, torn bills, a rusted hairclip.
you aim to tidy your life, but the grey threads at the end of your sleeve
- the ones you picked at talking over lunch, when you didn't know
that was your last lunch with him -
they catch, run up swiftly past the elbow, up your shoulder in
a ghost caress, the careful construction vanishing.
such a thrill, the unraveling.
this thing has ended six times before, and you hope.
each ending more successful than the previous one, shorter, smooth
with practice. the zipper curves round the suitcase corner,
torn letters fill the recycle bin. you've sealed shut the cream containers
-each smaller than 100 ml. you've set all sharp objects apart.
"see you tomorrow", the waitress said that day, as the two of you got up
from the table. you sensed something twitch in the air, but wouldn't
stop moving. outside, rain was blurring the city
and suddenly there was nowhere to go like that.*
(clouds crumble, spilling water from other places, migratory
sorrow. your umbrella is useless, three broken spokes, each spoke
has a story. he doesn't have one, real men don't carry umbrellas.
or stories. so you're stuck under an awning together.
if you wait enough, it will go away.
but then it will come again. but by then you'd be gone.)
last time you left, it took you two whole days to miss him.
when you were far enough, you locked yourself up in the red
bathroom of some hotel, to call, with your father watching
TV on the other side of the wall. you recalled the moment vividly then,
from a south american novel. that happened
there: a sad girl's face in the mirror, storms and distance, many many
years, messages in the void.
and is this, love, supposed to make it better?
*this is the echo of a poem by krista e. that i read 6 years ago. don't have the text of the poem to check, but i'm sure the thing i wanted to describe stayed with me from there.
where does unraveling go? you comb for small change
on the bottom of your bag and there's the stitching torn apart and a world
of crumbs underneath, of leaking pens, torn bills, a rusted hairclip.
you aim to tidy your life, but the grey threads at the end of your sleeve
- the ones you picked at talking over lunch, when you didn't know
that was your last lunch with him -
they catch, run up swiftly past the elbow, up your shoulder in
a ghost caress, the careful construction vanishing.
such a thrill, the unraveling.
this thing has ended six times before, and you hope.
each ending more successful than the previous one, shorter, smooth
with practice. the zipper curves round the suitcase corner,
torn letters fill the recycle bin. you've sealed shut the cream containers
-each smaller than 100 ml. you've set all sharp objects apart.
"see you tomorrow", the waitress said that day, as the two of you got up
from the table. you sensed something twitch in the air, but wouldn't
stop moving. outside, rain was blurring the city
and suddenly there was nowhere to go like that.*
(clouds crumble, spilling water from other places, migratory
sorrow. your umbrella is useless, three broken spokes, each spoke
has a story. he doesn't have one, real men don't carry umbrellas.
or stories. so you're stuck under an awning together.
if you wait enough, it will go away.
but then it will come again. but by then you'd be gone.)
last time you left, it took you two whole days to miss him.
when you were far enough, you locked yourself up in the red
bathroom of some hotel, to call, with your father watching
TV on the other side of the wall. you recalled the moment vividly then,
from a south american novel. that happened
there: a sad girl's face in the mirror, storms and distance, many many
years, messages in the void.
and is this, love, supposed to make it better?
*this is the echo of a poem by krista e. that i read 6 years ago. don't have the text of the poem to check, but i'm sure the thing i wanted to describe stayed with me from there.
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