Cut up hydrocodone and bourbon turns an already weak heart way down to a murmur and no I don’t mean that now just remembering and I’m a little afraid it’ll sleep on that when it skips a few and then beats like hell to catch back up but that’s ok like I was till I heard your voice again and got a little laugh and all your oks—no not tonight ok let’s see each another time ok when we have more ok don’t want to rush ok it’s ok ok.
I’ll always love you, you know. Ok.
Didn’t say that, but it’s ok, she knows.
I wonder if she knows that even though it’s spring I watch the sun drop and think of that first autumn when this city was still all hers and all new to me before it became all ours and then was just the city it had always been, minus the colorings and picturings and sensings and feelings we overlay on our places as they dictate our grand doings with their grander indifference.
I think she knows that, because I do and we know a lot of the same things.
But I don’t think she knows I know I will also always see this city through those first days, days even before she walked in, seeing how they seemed how they smelled how I was so perfectly apart from the hustling bustle as to be those days, fully, days of being, now been.
Pick one of these brick walls and paint a mural of a heart tired from love, maybe of, maybe completely sick but fortified by remembrance, and my guess is she’d know it’s mine, or at least think so first and then tell me with a poem or song, neither hers, and I’d say ok, yes, she knows
and that’s enough.