.
He sat rigid, heavy limbs.
Glossy mess at his hips and I sigh inwardly, completing the full circle, having nowhere left to turn but towards him and his photograph memories.
He recoils. Again, begs for his skin to be whole, his mind to be fit, his limbs to obey while she's caught - addict, chain replaced, remorseless.
New York: and he whispers, almost as if insanity has lost its final victory. Torrents of ashen shadows beneath his eyes and he cringes; "My mother sent us flowers, did you know? Too bad."
I don't know. She's been dead to the world; maybe ten years and I can't remember much of her face. I can't remember his middle name; I can't recall his accent, thick like molding honey and dripping over the seams in my skull. He's unknown to me, now.
Maybe always.
Distant people finding out my phone number, my hidden locations - and I find it's always been easy to disappear. To observe the world from some place only I know my full name, watching through coffee stains, watery tea, my best friends sudden impulsive rendition of richard wilbur over the froth of his latte. "A number is not a life, not a link of any real meaning." and he grins because he believes it, and I believe him.
Still, this boy awakens our triangle past that has somehow taken over his life. I drove four hours to watch the cascade of memory sadness as though a tear had ineradicably fixed itself within his eye. He’s thickened, afraid to touch me, and I’m not sure what to say.
"Do you remember the day she left?"
He coughs, unwinds the signature of her departure still keeping me on this bottom stair.
Now I'm watching him with his flowers on the empty porch, through my camel filter, my stone-cold empty glare, my hidden meanings.
I'm beginning to believe love is something horrible.
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