late night ringing --
means all is not well. and somewhere in the world there are people who need to be touched. and all i’ve got is my voice. desperate words that could never think of being enough. it is paul. throaty and breathless. tone as strained as red vessels in eyes that have long been cried useless and dry. a baby. miscarried. secretive prospective parents. empty again. larger and messier. like a spill that doesn’t understand the boundaries of its imposed borders. i spend my time trying to convince him that these days, these ceaseless painful events, are not acts of retribution for a life once lived. throughout, i try not to let thoughts of my own fertility creep in and take hold. but in the comfort. behind it all. i can hear the years of countless flippant remarks. i never want children. neverwantchildren. until i’m sick of myself. my uselessness. i realize that i don’t believe anything i’ve been saying to paul. that i see much of my own life as a punishment for past wrong doings. but all that matters now is this moment. the stability of paul. and i offer as much gravity as i can find. andy’s locked himself in the bathroom, and paul won’t hang up the line until he opens the door. while we talk about the complexities of klimt’s hope i, i imagine andy, there, behind the door. trapped by the limitations of his own body.