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Mary in my hotel room crying, I can't help it. Thinking my father's thoughts. Between bleary eyes I write in my book, pencil sounds the only thing besides her sniffling sobs and the imperceptible whine of the television on mute, flashing white in the dark. I write about: a merry wept room gentle lost moment this infection in spaces not described even to her, ...her breasts still showing, because she's not yet dressed, and I can't look. She's a better poet than I'll ever be. I'm turned away, but catch her eyes in the mirror. Hollow, it occurs to me. We've come full circle, and our lives are the deepest clichés. As my penis is still deflating, the sheets are on the floor, her hands are trembling, holding my letter, while I try to think of where to I can escape. A year later I find her again at a party. The randomness of a small world seems mostly-so when you come face to face with a girl you destroyed one night; across a cheap keg in a full house with a drunken mind and a dumbfounded expression, thinking 'I may have destroyed you for one night, but you've wrecked me for a year,' and so on. Of course, it didn't go well. A year after that, I'm in another relationship. Two years later and I'm married. But sixty longer years now, stuck here in this dying bed, I'm still thinking about it. Too soon, too soon! I write in my book: -sorry. |