for matthew: (upon discovering she was snatched away by a pretty blonde)
what can i pull out of my hat for you today? persimmons engorged, lining my streets with bulbous fruit, desperate to give seed. you are there, a half shadow under yellow light, the sun a distant orange above the horizon. (sorry, my sentences are chunked beyond recognition).
"how do you feel today?" our conversations have turned to blood, peeling our skin with dull knives.
he responds with the classic, "eh."
"it's the girl, isn't it?"
"do you even have to ask?" the residue has tarnished his
voice; i dream of falcon's, their wings flocking behind me.
he used to stand behind her as she cut up apples; her back to his, right at the angle where sweatshirts show a hint of the body underneath. the air is distilled around, words caught in the thicket of shaky hands: bruised feet.
she begins, shifting her weight. "i remember seeing you out by the water, i thought i wouldn't be able to walk." walking towards him, her voice quivers, losing it's focus, "i had thought i would never see anyone but you."
he reaches for her; like in the movies, she pushes away. the apple is behind her, its carcass on display for all kitchen utensils to see- a bareness about it; disrespectful. raising her hands, he notices they are moist from its meat-
"but you've been blotted out."
his deflated voice pipes up: "if you're going to say something, at least make it sound good."
despite his warning, her look is enough to sever what words could not, rinds rotting in flattened skin.
we are hollowed, our insides carved out with crude surgical tools and blunt stones. remnants of her smell surround, mocking, creating a bitter taste in our mouths.
"you see," she says, "i gave up; i neglected, i intentionally searched out someone w/ more padding, more strength-"
"but I, I watched everything waste away under the dimming light, our days waning like they do in the fall- leaves crumpling under our feet."
"you didn't even try."
(the eyes tell more than the voice).
"yes i did."
"no, you can't say you gave up, because you didn't try; you let her get away." the arrangement of her features is accusatory, boring the truth into him with heavy spikes.
"she didn't give me a chance."
"you never even gave her the opportunity to let her."
he shrugs, indifference false in his posture. "i'm a glutton for punishment."
what slides off our back during an unhinging, apprehensions embellished, painted over us like silver-tipped claws. we regret nothing, yet everything all at once; we desire hammers, clenched teeth. everything must be pureed our easily chewed since we are enamored with what is soft and cannot hurt us. we revere fruits: the bitter taste, how the meat slides down our throat with a haughty force, an eye-rolling to the stomach.
in the corner of his eye (the iris; the distorted vision), he catches intertwined hands in the webbing, the wax coating his lids. whispering:
"these are our secrets- held in our hands like fetuses- these are the conversations we die for"-
a strand of blonde on his sweatshirt: hooded, blue-
and he is too perfect to be constructed by god or any other; instead, he parts waves, swimming in afterbirth- he is too good for anything conventional.
and like that, they are gone. their outlines burned into air: hands held, rinds in between.
he remembers what never happened. how axes struck through deadened hearts; deflated; emptied of blood. we have become detonated like bullets, our guns lonely in our absent. they hunger for a place to distribute shrapnel. for guns to shine in steely excitement of something to puncture; to kill.
but unrequited dialogue interrupts the conversation- fruit now emaciated, bodies shriveled, blonde melting into blue. bullets are showering, piercing too much of an eye full. dirty sweatshirts on the ground: wrinkled.