i had cried myself to sleep. weekends
were for crying back then. you woke
me up and said, "you didn't think i'd come,
did you?"

no. it got to where i never believed anything
you said anymore, though i kept wanting to.

the air was so hot outside, so cool in. you
patted the bedspread and said, "i like this.
this is nice." why do i remember that? and
you liked my lamp, the little one with the
glass shade that you touched to turn on.
you liked my "things."

which time was it i made dinner for you?
fish cakes, fried potatoes. it was awful.
i went grocery shopping while you were
working on my computer. i carried in all
the groceries and you were surprised.

you came into the kitchen once for some
thing, i don't remember what, and i jumped
when you said something. i still jump when
i'm startled.

i can still smell your hair. i can still see it
spread across my pillows, feel it on my
thighs. the weight of it, the sheen. your
fingers as you put the band around it to
keep it out of your face.

cold memories now. they bring no warmth.

they didn't then, either.

 

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