there’s something about march that always gets in my way

jules calls, and i intentionally let him ring through to the machine. cradle the phone in my palm. hold the receiver against my lips and wait. let his voice spill out into the room. irritated and wild. i know i’m too tired to argue. finally answer despite all logical reservations. sometimes i wrap myself too tightly with things i know i can’t have – or don’t even want. this time, it’s the nice-self-consumed-whispering-jay. a dangerous partner to my heavy lidded self-immolation. i draw out my words. sparse. economical.

boy
what’s the word?
fuck
and when do you arrive?

we pause to discuss the relevance of the phrase a bird who flies. until i’ve nothing left to offer. curl up on the couch. close my eyes. listen to the voice saying hurry home. hurry home.