My heart has been breaking since the day we met, I think.
maybe not of you, no. But breaking in different places since I wore a Threadless T shirt to the first day of chemistry lab,
or when you were running and had cold hands/
a different part hurt as you awed at the markings made in my favorite novella
or when I returned a little red book with a balloon cover 2 or 3 years later.
I'm learning to like white wine on hot holidays like this. It feels like a pie starting to weep in the fridge, like getting tangled in icicle lights trying to put up a christmas tree. I remember I had a christmas tree with you and we destroyed it down to the sharp bits that caused me to bleed;to laugh like nothing.
It is true when I think of you, it is mostly fall. But then drips of light hit the months that are the knowing we had the winter, spring and summer and another fall.
another fall.
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Her parents, the architects, assembled both beds whole with only a drop of wine, myopia. This was the long autumn, and the trees were all black. Children with masks stayed home. Candy in breakfast got frozen in old photographs. Everyone held hands inside piles of leaves and shale, held their breathes and counted from ten.
Her parents never had her, but named her often, pictured how well or poorly their geographies would align, mapped genetically the color of her eyes and cancers, knew she was doomed to orthodontistry and sloppy language things. There was the present and the future, and then there was something altogether different, something deep and dark running from their brains to the top of their throats, causing them to periodically miss work or misspeak, embedding them in weird twin oceans, coercing them to watch some depressing shit on the Everett interpretation and idée fixe on british television, 2 am.
Her father grows softer with age, bundles of wires spilling onto his lawn. He grows soft robots in the lonely ferme ornée below their first kiss (optics of hydroplasie, stymieing droplets of her eyelash) which hangs above the eigenstate like a fingernail moon.
“Sorry that this beach got far away.” He rubs sand across her blank cuticle. “Sorry that islands jumbled of curry witnessed numerous coups incl. two denouements of sunsets/little cats/broken cigarettes.” He is talking to his daughter in west where he lives. He is showing her how to bake Jupiter cakes and jump on trampolines. This is the first time he installed a door. This is the first time he took holiday pay and spent all day outside. This is the second time he disassembled a Christmas tree and drank each blue light inside. “One day you too will feel the wash of adulthood.”
Her father spends all night in his laboratory uploading a complete simulacra of his brain. He embeds his patterns of speech, his desire to one day drown alive, the neutral sparkles behind his eyes inside the body of a shiba inu. He sends the dog over the mountains with fourteen preprogrammed kisses for her mother, but knows the dog will intentionally meander, erratically end up darlinged halfway down a hallway, only to join a commercial fishing vessel for 4-6 years to forget the pain. The dog, fully grey-bearded full and fatter, speaking to him years later barely reveals his impetus. “She could not recognize the havoc of temporality.”
Her father, his daughter, and his dog-self all playing with beds in Target, climbing to the summit of home goods shelving, leaping precipitously onto steel framework, screaming pillow fight and angel hearts at distraught passerby. He remembers being stationed in Croatia, girls lit up like strings across his arms, how he could drink twenty beers without blinking. When he came home, how every morning he would drink whiskey with his pancakes, pour orange juice on his silverware and wait. There are no humans and there are other animals.
“Sorry,” says her mother, and assembles furniture in one hand, cocktails on the other. The memory of her each branching self sways like a deficit forest clear-cut and unattached like balloons drift red or the sky at night. This night, she decides to walk around, and slowly watches ants from the sky at night return to their memories in the earth like balloons in the forest. Her father muddles the imagery, can’t get a clear focus on this human he did once love deep.
Sorry now that I guess I look deeply sad?
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