Sinead O’Connor and Total Self-Immolation

He calls to apologize.
There’s been a load of that going around these days.
Talks about how much he loves me.
And I press my palms hard against the concrete and wish I wasn’t thinking so intently about his image.
Or your images.
He asks me if I know what he considers his conversion moment --
the moment that he fell in love with me.
I say I don’t.
It’s the memory of shaving my head.
The factor of trust.
And then he breaks swiftly into an easy rendition of “I Want Your (Hands on Me).”
Not hard and fast like the album.
It’s as if he read my mind. And I fall just as rapidly into memories. Only to realize that listening to Sinead will always be filled all at once with bliss and sorrow.
I say I love you and feel like I mean it.