Not everyone has a sob story, Charlie, and even if they do, it’s no excuse.
As we lower onto the December-cold pleather seats of the minivan, we knock hands: both of us reaching to turn on the other’s seat warmer first.
We don’t get older, we just get more detailed.
I agree to live now, live as sweetly as I can, to fill my clothes with wind and my eyes with lights, but I understand I’ll have to leave in the end.
So file me under acquired tastes; it may help you realize that some things are not yours to acquire.
But even as a child, she knew what this* meant – that it would only become more difficult to locate what you had lost, for the galaxy was yet breaking apart, and the stars, in their brilliant independence, were burning for no one.
*this = the idea that the initial explosion that created the universe was still happening, and space ever-inflationary
We feel around making sense of the terrain,
our own new limbs,
bumping up against a herd of bodies
until one becomes home.
People talk so much, gaggingly long monologues on minor personal preferences, verbatim recitations of pointless conversations, uninterpreted bits of memory.
Living like this, the way I’m living at the moment, is harder in the summer when there is so much daylight, so little cover of darkness, when everyone is out and about being flagrantly, aggressively happy.
I hop in the shower and assure myself that behind every good woman is a little back fat.