Having no say on whether I am ready, he says this is real. Don’t I feel it? Pushing me. There was no question. Through my body, yes, of course. I shared secrets, Hemingway. Told him I was him; sorting matters, resigning lovers, abandonment, oh, the charm we haven’t got. Writing those we no longer need. Our pages, unheard gestures, are a final wave. Goodbyes, they take so long. And the story changes at least nine times; in the interim, even after.
I have a lot to be good at.
I can’t say anything that you won’t care about. We have made me quiet. These days you think you know how to read me. Now I make you insecure. And I can’t feel guilty about what I haven’t yet done. I enjoy watching you listening, become shy seem stupid when you probe me to answer my abstractions, I hate a phase your face passes through. I’ve failed to keep what was there. It only takes a moment for you to worry about me. I enjoy watching all the silence in you; even I want to ask how you are doing.
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