he is lighting fires in the forest. at this point, i think he’s done it all his life. “hospitals are the strangest cathedrals.” he says this to me & we are laying in bed but we’re 1000 miles apart. he holds a cigarette in one hand, and everything i am in the other. he has these lips and he is always making a little frown with them, like he is trying to figure something out. he wears ties to work & i can’t take him seriously when he does.
so, anyway, my blood is boiling & he’s not doing anything about it. i’m touching his skin like i don’t know he hates everything about me. and he lets it happen, because what else can you do? he pretends like he doesn’t care, like he’s so cavalier that even his heart fails to tip the scale. he lets me touch him because he knows that i need to. he knows i can’t stop. i kiss his neck, and i do that because if i can’t hid my heart in a hummingbird, i might as well hide it with him; because he enjoys the hurricane, & i’ll do just the same.
the first time, it was a library. the second was the back of a pontiac. and the third was the last night of things at a bus station in downtown atlanta. “you’re strange.” it made the bones in my back hurt when he said it, like instead of stopping the bus kept going & hit me, because i have never known if it’s a compliment or not. there are lots of things i’ll never know about him. i don’t think i’ll ever know who he writes poems about. i’ll never know why he won’t go into a wafflehouse with anyone but himself. and i doubt he’ll ever tell me where he learned to stick to his guns the way he does. what feels so improbable is that i have never really made sense of him, and most likely never will.