How much of my little life was made by their morphine, mania? The way I choose my words so carefully, expect too little, do too much This was all laid out for me long before my birth I may just be the logical conclusion of all their twisted dreams.
You are kind when you say my accent is good. I deflect and assure you I can say only four things: I speak Chinese like a small child I'm sorry Please forgive me I love you
Today I am all tops without tails, titles without poems: Rain Check Bathtub Gin Morphine, Mania Middle School I will all of these bright seeds to bloom into verse. Sunday, I sat laughing with you and told you my novel went nowhere. I was all character. But I thrilled when you said: you can count on me for plot.
You make me smile so hard. "I know! I know!" We commiserate that our arms grew so long we finally wear glasses and we have given up understanding teenagers. But when we talk together we are at once here in the middle of life and back at the beginning where we started: twenty and in no hurry to crack open the books after dinner.
You make a good point. Loving me is about more than the dishes you don't empty from the washer your way of clumping my wet clothes together on the line the bed unmade, morning and night the towel on the floor, open drawers. You are exactly right that these are all small matters like the meals you don't cook taxes filed late gifts unchosen, letters unsent. Of course, of course of course these things are not precious. But I am.
You told me you're an ass man and I thought Great! I have that in ample supply. Now I understand you better than you know you really are an ass, man.
I don't know how to sing this but in a whisper I can say how beautiful how beautiful how beautiful this all is
Why so tired, so sad? With horror I ask myself: how many times did I feed you broth of my own bones?
On Wednesdays we sit my foot resting against your calf under the table over plates of pan-fried dumplings and a steaming bowl of soup And I want to say how much I need this the gentle thing finding its way between us as we laugh and tell our stories of love's disappointment the children we are raising and a future so uncertain I cannot name it
This is what I want to say: I love your broken heart.