moth cases a friday night and even though i told him i'd be there then- and i was- it didn't last. rather the usual wanting prevailed and i was gone.
like that.
the wanting to be surrounded by loads of people in dark cavernous bars, mostly strangers, but not to have to speak to them. i'll make that one a cameo. it won't last. i'll put it on a small ring surrounding a wreath of paintbrushes i haven't touched, bristles.
also the wanting immediately following this to be home in bed spooning some mysterious magical sex, some force that i think i've yet to meet. i think about being in another city 30 miles from here tomorrow night, what it may be like. i think about being in another one, 3000 miles from here. with my own shared chromosome, shared language we can't recall, in three days.
so then as wantings wane i follow myself back home, on the way there knowing i'd
rather this than anything (only at the moment):
to be sitting open-windowed listening to open-windowed conversations in the car next to me. this woman saying 'maybe come on sunday,' planning, but i'll never be sure of that. to hear this is like the comfort of pressing your own warm shoulder to your face, to stay warm in cold rooms. or of finally being able to keep plants alive, and to make myself things that only i like.
and what is it to miss the days of his illness when for nothing i could just go, and drive for five hours to be by his side, and no one questioned that. that will. meanwhile outside rain falling like small stars past me, as past your place again, my own restless midnight trip to record something never felt before, wanting only to put it in place.