i don’t know where you are now. maybe you’re in an office with a window down on the Gold Coast. maybe you’re shooting black and whites in the Balkans. maybe you’re driving up Whalley Ave.

but for now and maybe forever you’re frozen in tears on that awful futon on Chapel Street. i’m holding on tight, knowing that when i let go you’re gone. then you’re gone, but you don’t leave, not right away. i’m back on the futon in the soaked August heat, and i hear you primping behind the closed bathroom door for a good long while, so i know your upcoming night is about more than hanging out. i want to put my hand through the window, but i can’t because we live on the first floor so the glass is barred and because i voluntarily gave up my rights to your whereabouts. when you come out of the bathroom, your eyes are narrow with defiance and red.

then my shutter snaps and you leave. and even now, you’re still all sad and red to me.

then i’m dropping you off at JFK. i can’t even remember the music (probably not a mix you made me) or the weather (probably hanging onto warm in that early fall on the East Coast kind of way). just the weight of unbalanced expectations, of lines not meeting on the page, of words that were dropped casually but are now stuck to the floor like gum that lost its flavor. then there’s the hug made out of limp arms and out-turned faces. i have no apology to give, really, and you don’t want one anyway.

i watch your pumas amble away in a blur and get the feeling there’s a question hanging between us that will never be answered.

then you’re smoking a cigarette while we sit with our feet in the gutter. i might be drinking a beer. you might be, too. i hear Death Cab floating down to us through our open windows a story up. post bloody knuckles and a broken mirror. pre studio on Howe. we’re both apologizing over and over in a thousand different words. we keep gently grabbing the blame back from each other, like it’s a slightly expensive restaurant check. we talk in Elliott Smith lyrics, the language of constant good-bye.

drink up with me now and forget all about the pressure of days
do what i say and i’ll make you okay and drive them away
the images stuck in your head

i know this calm won’t last, that we’re just in the eye of storm. you’ll eventually ask for more than i’ll want to give, and we’ll eventually decide that there isn’t really a compromise. but i keep you on pause that May night on Lyon Street, your voice quiet and thoughtful, your concern sincere and your sadness endless.

–

i know you’ve moved as far from there as i have, that you smile and watch tv and drink coffee, but i can’t see you anywhere else. i don’t know if i ever will.

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