The windows are open and I would tell you to come if I thought you wouldn’t listen. The windows are open and everything smells like a campfire because the flame is too fresh and the incense is the generic kind the kids pick up from the liquor store. The only thing I did right was have kids and now he’s doing it, too.
I think that it would be good for you to smell it, anyway. I think it would be good for you to be here. I have not really imagined you on your back with your shoulders spread across my sheets and the colors of your tattoos fading deeply into me. I haven’t really thought about your hair and how it might display across my pillow, might or not mingle with mine—these moments falling into our mouths.
Sometimes I want to get violent. I asked my most recent ex-husband, my least favorite one, to book me an appointment at a Rage Room but he fucked up and made it for a time I was scheduled to teach a yoga class, lost the money, didn’t reschedule.
Comments are closed.