imogen would like to have your baby now, please.
so much of my life, these days, is a mystery. and when i read your words. smell the ink of your pen, as if it holds the secret to the universe, like the damp dark scent of your hairline. i sometimes feel like i might be able to slow down. a little. stop for a second. open all the windows and doors. and not scream and scream this madness. out. with so much of you filling me in.
i can't apply for another job. get let down by another lead. fucked by another dream. going by this or any name. on any continent. or this one. in any weather. i can't look at another piece of paper and write my name or your name or digits that in some national database somewhere pull up the details that somehow point to the beautiful ordinary intricacies of this life. that is now. in this little town. in a little house. where i am. in these days. and these nights. in your arms. or next to your arms. or in the space of breath where you once were and i can still smell you. if. and then i close my eyes and lips so tight. press my face just firm against the mattress. and stay. very very silent. and still.
