Sunday, January 8, 2012


1. Please call me. I wait countless hours. I barely eat. I didn't sleep last night.

I know what you said. I understand it. I…I can't find it. The point. There must have been one.

Perhaps last summer?  I ran too far ahead. You tripped.

Or at Christmas. I criticized your mother's turkey. You musn't have liked that.

Was it last week? By the grocery. You looked away. I thought. I thought you didn't see.

Well. Anyway. I should go. But please. Call me. I wait.

2. I suppose. I was wrong. To call. I mean. I am calling. I apologize for calling.

I wanted for you to feel guilty. Do you? For not explaining. Not justifying. Not showing me.

What was it? Who was it? That stupid French guy. The one at the grocery.

Did he so warmly touch your shoulder? Did my touch feel cold?

I feel cold. Towards you especially. I want to yell. To scream. Your silence, it stings.

Don't bother. Do not bother. Calling is useless. I hate you.

3. So sorry. So incredibly sorry. I don't know. I don't know what came over me. It came over me.

I would never. I could never. I don't hate you. I love you. I mean. I did love you. I mean I do.

Oh I do. And it hurts me. It is in vain. So painful.

I want to forget. Or go back. Perhaps I was too critical. Perhaps I didn't say it enough.

Perhaps I did. Who knows really. I miss you. Please call.

4. I will do anything. I will change anything. Anything. I mean it.

I will shave. Tomorrow. Tomorrow the beard is gone.

I will cook dinner. When you get home from work. When you are sick. I will. I promise.

If given the chance, I will. I will call you. Every time I go to the bar. Every time.

We will laugh together. The stupid, vapid girls. My boorish friends. The crappy football team.

Just tell me what. I will wait.

5. I suppose. Well I suppose I should stop. Calling. Stop bothering you. Clearly, you won't call.

Clearly. I suppose. I suppose I am doomed. Doomed to this life. Without you.

I've packed a box. Your things. A hairbrush. A stuffed monkey. Your running watch.

Sometime. I will leave them. Right outside your house. Under the awning. So they don't get wet.

I won't knock. Or call. I'll just leave them. I can't right now.

I touch all of the places. Places you touched, sat, brushed by. I feel your energy. I try. Release it.

It hasn't quite happened. So I'm keeping it. The box. Until then. The release. Then I will.

6. I wish. I want to take back. These last calls. All of them.

You deserve your privacy. I feel. Slightly better now. I'm getting used to it. Being without you.

I barely wince at the box. I realized. You don't want. Those things. Just reminders.

I don't want. Them either. So. I've left them. Goodwill. You know.

After this call. I'm going to erase your number. Goodbye. Is all. And I'm sorry.

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