Postcards and gas stations are scattered across
my memory. Old vending machines with bingo buttons,
muted music, and a dry mouth. Bathrooms that required a purchase
or a conversation,
or both . The highway of my memory,
and forgettable destinations.
You’re not even looking.
And you’ve never handled silence well
so the music plays on.
And we don’t talk.
There are no phone call conversations boiling with truths,
no whiskey to wet you down to the soft woman I had come to admire. No late night rants
raging about anything and everything, and losing nothing along the way.
now there is only music,
and too much of it.
The night before you leave, you ask me what’s the matter.
I say nothing,
knowing this could go on for a while.
And I know–
you think I’m sad that you’re leaving. You think I love you.
I let it be.
I don’t have the heart to take that from you, or maybe I have the heart by not doing so.
I’ve never been quiet sure.
But soon I cover up, and we talk about seeing one another again. Another trip somewhere.
Places are named, plans are formed.
I don’t sleep much that last night,
as you lie beside me like a log.
I’m thinking about those hotel towels you stole,
and how that place looked just like some castle by the sea.
And I still have those towels,
And we never did go East,
we just stopped.
After you left the next morning
I came to realize
that all my life
I’ve been fighting between the reality of how I feel and
the responsibility of how I should behave.
And letting it be
Whether love is there or not.