You are not enough

Do you remember? I have a hard time forgetting. I’m not sure the words you said were legal. They were fun.

Tell me again I’ll tell myself. I’ll be good I promise.

Promises lie. Lies lie worse. You can’t trust me. I can’t trust me. Move on knowing that.

My hands aren’t shaking and I can’t feel the involuntary pull of my muscles. I can type. The bar is low.

Tell me again so I can tell myself. Nevermind.

You are not enough.

I was never him

The difference in what we accomplished? You put on your stockings and feel like you’re doing right by the world. Your company is evil. I remembered everything because I remember everything, and Gerry liked that. But I hated that world. I did it after I knew I hated it for you and the kids. I never didn’t hate it. And when you left it was a fucking nightmare. Everything went away. A lot remains away. I was never that person. I played that person because you’re supposed to. I was never him.

Laura Santa Monica

I sat behind you at this concert. You were a dancer. You did ballet. It seemed far too refined for me. You bought me a hula dancer for my car. You thought about me outside of our interaction. I suppose that was good.

The hula dancer was horribly inappropriate, but I wanted to fuck you, so I didn’t say anything.

Imagine flashbulbs going off. Life is that. What do you remember? A flash? Love at a moment? Love ends. And then what?

The way we deal with the way love folds our clothes. It puts things in their places.

Lost. It’s hard to find the bathroom.

Love works separately from how you’d prefer it to work. It’s a worm that squeezes to fit the empty spaces. Lost is lost. Love is not different. Love only hurts a little less because there was something. It’s gone. There wouldn’t be a question, if there was one. It’s gone.

Soft hands

My hands are soft. But it takes everything to write like this. This isn’t a hobby. You have to give everything. More than you thought you knew you had. Then you have to give again. I’m dying no less than you are. I spend my days looking at the dying, looking at the dead. There’s nothing wrong with me. I chose this a long time ago.

Seconds on a clock

The moment is so small that it makes bigger things happen. The moment has to happen now so it has an advantage. It insists on being like a second on a clock. It says, “Whatever the fuck you want, I’m going to make this next minute.”

I love pace. I see why it matters. I love compulsion. I see why it matters.

I love the parts that are compelled to work. And I love the parts that wait.