Even Though You Dislike My Writing

on the phone he takes my order in an attentive and skittish manner as if he has not done it before
i fumble through explaining it to him, the same
when i walk in the door i see that he is working, and not at the counter, per always
he sees me, greets me with a happy new year
and i return the greeting, mentioning that i know that i am early
as i normally do
"back to work" he laughs sharply
"yeah" i trail off
in my head i ask him how his week off was, his holidays
what he did for new years eve
how it feels coming back
how nice it must be for him not to work so early, so often
such long hours, while never faltering in his energetic and passionate disposition
i tell him thank you
and realize only when sitting alone in my silent car parked outside
that it was all that i said


we are at a dark bar and you ask to share a smoke and you're not talking to me
but it brings me immense happiness
even though you're going to smoke a cigarette
and even though you're going to leave the room
two things i hate
but it's these words that are familiar
common and comforting
it's the type of things you say that we've lived before 
that i love
even if it's you coldly informing me on the telephone
that we've had this conversation before
and that you've told me before
that we've had this conversation before
it's routine
but reminds me that we're the same as we've always been
sometimes that is good sometimes that is bad
but it's true
and i love it
it feels the same
i want to feel the same
i want to feel
love


i'm dreaming, of course
but i walk into the hospital room and you're the only one there
you are lying weak, crippled in the white bed
in the white room
you have no beard, but your brown hair's a mess
i look down at your hand and it looks contracted and boneless
you explain what's been going on
you explain where you've been
you explain to me immediately that you've withheld information to keep us safe
such alterations as changing your girlfriend's name in the story 
because she hurt you, and you're still not safe
wouldn't be safe for me to know
i listened, although could not help
just looked at your smooth dark skin
glanced long at your wounds and injuries
patted myself on the back for knowing 
that you would not be happy
if you abandoned me

i sit at work, painfully aware of the cheapness of my desk chair
for hours i try not to feel guilty, or anything
my boss and i
we have a wordless understanding
that i am to lie dormant, in wait for next disaster to strike
in that event i will be put to great use, have tremendous purpose and worth
i see friendships in a similar fashion
actually the same


my towels never dry in my apartment
maybe it's too cold, i'm not sure
but i throw two towels and some things in a basket and march it all up to the dryer
i peer around the roof for people
but there is no one
as i approach it i see that the light is off in the laundry room
i wasn't worried because i know where the switch is
as i reach to flip it, i see a silhouette sitting on the washing machine
i instinctually jump, then instinctually apologize
i see the man is listening to music on his phone
about my age, perhaps a bit older
i ask if it is alright with him if i momentarily turn on the light
he says yes kindly, and suggests that i can leave it on
i quickly begin to fill the quarter slots with quarters and the dryer with damp clothes
he speaks with me all the while, about a laundry mat nearby,
about how long i've lived here, about what floor we live on and why he's there
i told him that it made sense he would come to the roof for privacy
but he seemed to want to talk, and understand
i seemed to want to talk, also, but had no reason to stay once the machine began
i wanted him to introduce himself
and he did
he asked my name, and i wanted to shake hands
and we did
he said his name was michael
and when i repeated it back to him it made me appreciate that our names sounded the same then
i finish telling him that i'm on the 4th floor, i've been here 2 months, as well as several other things
and i am walking slowly towards the door when he tells me earnestly that he did not mean to question
i stopped, and made eye contact, assuring honest that it was okay
but somehow could not bring myself to stay; unable to completely assess the ends of this exchange
he didn't really know what to say, and neither did i
"i'll be back, so maybe i'll see you again"
i turned off the light

i walked through my life half there
the other portion of my mind was creating mental pictures
asking myself things, then answering them
setting up situations, then acting them out
would you ask to kiss me like you used to?
did i have complete control over my trajectory in your life
and would you mind that?
i wanted to know what your living situation looked like
would there be jerseys on your bedroom wall? would you share a room?
if i went into your front door would there be boys on the couch that you would introduce me to
could they guess what you and i were doing together?
hearing from you twice totally enveloped me in some un-mutual but not impossible daydream
you told me that you wanted to see me
and it has been many months
but not a year
and it makes me wonder
will you be wearing bracelets?
maybe i'll ask about your tattoo
and maybe you'll say i should just spend the night instead of driving home
to be safe
maybe someday we will talk slow on the phone
maybe someday we will talk save "it's been a while"


i tell you everything because you never once wanted me to
the stories i do not tell you
i voice later so that we can laugh at them
and we do
you take care of yourself
and are happier the more that i take care of myself
so i take care of myself to take care of you
one person more often than not changes the other person's mind if we do not agree
almost always we agree
i describe for you the magic of the universe
and know that you know it better than i


it's not soul-crushingingly sad that i cannot speak with you
that i feel strange, or afraid, or overly concerned
it's crushingly sad that i cannot muster up one thing to say


in the center of the landscape there was a darkroom
which i lead you inside of
to observe photographs of yourself from years prior
i wanted to see them all myself
but figured you would be better off remembering
i already had anyway
i went into a different room, one with lots of light and a large window
in the sill of the window were irons
haphazardly strew about
so i spent a fair amount of time lining up, rearranging, and organizing the irons
irons represent harshness, anger, aggression, ruthnessless and conflict
also endurance, which i believe to be similar if not the same thing
either way, you never forwent that room