Listen:The year is 2003. Impoverished sunrise counting backwards till dissolving into earth, waking up the next day beautiful. The question isnt why so many have a secret death wish, but why so many have a drive to life. A repetition. Two fold. The things I've damaged. They stopped. They arent. Imprint in error. Your cat calls left me feeling mildly aroused, lover, what names will you call in your sleep? Shall we try again. I promise this time I will mean it. I didn't mean it. I'm done playing games now- believe me I've had my fair share of empathy to those soft and vulnerable things, wide eyed that leave you shaken at dawn. We rise in each other's skin. Forgive the inclusive remark just there. It's the vodka talking. The rest is me. Shaken and beautiful darling. I used to be. Still try though. At different speeds, persuasions.

Listen:

I generally don't admit this, but I think you are a breathtakingly beautiful individual. I'd like to take you home, consume you, reap what we can from each other ( there's that inclusive talk again!) I'll be gentle. I know what its like to feel. Believe me. I can be soft. Don't tell anyone. Just between you and me. I think we have a general understanding. Injured my reputation in the last 3 states I lived. Hold my tongue now. People don't want honesty. This is different though. I wouldn't muddle it up, fuck it up like I have all the others. In a small way I think I might even love you. Care about you surely.

Want you to. I think I was scared the first time we met back there. When you asked if I was sad often and I told you no, I wasn't. I am. For many days now all I've done is cry. I'll tell you this, for I have the hope that one day you and I. Well, not that anyone is prone to monogamy or anything, but we could have a good thing going on, maybe one day I'll wake up and realize you were the best thing to ever happen to me and you will call my name to me at that very instant, and we will both laugh and cry a little and make wonderful love to one another, finally managing to make it out of one another's respective skins, primed for completion, love, nirvana, kisses, moonlight, babies, clean wombs, psyches, souls, etc, etc, etc. You know the drill.

Its an organized system.

Heads and hands over palms.

Prayer.

Wish, broken.

Stop injecting the spiritual, baby, it's a matter of



***

Protection. Three dozen condoms in my bag. In this day and age, there are invisible, hidden monsters to conquer or at least avoid. Cant keep fucking up or taking in or giving out. We cant merge. We thought we could, but it was dangerous. Proved to be. Science heals all. The soul is a fucking black hole, though, Simon says. Road trip the year 2000. California is the heart, the hub, the journey west, but Simon and I we tend to avoid the central systems. Besides we have a house waiting for us in Florida. All those aunts and uncles can damn well die. Make room for new blood. Pull the plug when I am old baby, I want nothing to do with wavering sentimentals. You, Abby? Jared laughs. I blush. But I don't meet Jared till later that month. Synapses are a little overworked and overtired. Sleep in the car the whole way. Dream of mom and dad, me creeping into their room, falling asleep between them, safe. Everything after has been an anticlimax.

But you know, I didn't cry the day my father died. In the same way that I reveled in never having seen Titanic, I have this bizarre pride at never having been to either a wedding or a funeral, as if time ceased to touch me in the two ways it matters most.