Novemeber 3 or 4, 1991
So her voice comes
(write of what you know)
over the phone line
(write of what you see)
Telling me that of course we've
(the silent scream of the taken for granted)
become just friends
And why haven't I known this?
And I sit, mute, staring at the grid the plastic of the mouthpiece makes
filtering out all the kind and the gently and the cared for
turning them through the meat grinder into
electronic words, reproductions of an original now too precious to touch
Of course we've stopped being lovers
(carrying always the nights of motion, the days of eyes)
and of course in the course of things we'll be siblings
and why am I so surprised?
I'm not, or I've stopped caring, or I've watched the timelapse camera
photograph the bugs carrying off the dead mouse bit by tooth, week by fur
And I still act as though I know people to be good at heart
Of course I know that
"I really want to be your friend--You're so awesome!"
is not "I love you"