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Here’s the truth laid out like a plate of food, he said. Here’s the scratch and dent you caused when you crashed into a stationary object. I’m still sleepwalking, naming things. Stifled like a laugh in a silent room. I’m still writing the novel where the whole thing unravels easily but ends up tangled on the floor. I’m still coloring in the skin like one big tattoo that tells the story of stairs we ran up and down on our way to forgiveness. You sit in compassionate poses, he said. You reel the film around your fists like a machine. Your eyes are lights, from ships, in a storm. Barely seen. I’m still stuck in the fog of San Francisco. I’m still watching you fire the waiter for not keeping your water glass full. I’m still lugging around these photographs, stuck together from too much dampness, humidity. It could be heat, he says. The stilted conversations I steer with my feet. I’m still sitting in the car listening to the end of the song. I’m still smelling the wind for snow. It won’t happen today, he said. I’m still waiting - head back and tongue out.
