when you slammed the door in my face, I laughed, because I couldn’t scream, or yell, or beg. when you slammed the door in my face the air pushed me back a bit, and I teetered on the top step. I’m clumsy, and if I had fallen backwards and broken my neck and ended up crippled or dead, would you have wept? not in that moment, I’m sure. the bitterest satisfaction is only empty in retrospect. in the moment it fills you, like a good meal, like great sex, like religion or a long movie.
I tried to explain she was a moment of weakness. it wasn’t hers — women are savage, and paranoid, but so rarely weak, and in that moment I touched her, and other things, and it was without meaning. meaningless but loaded with consequence. like all small actions, it became something greater, and worse, a free-floating emotional and social maelstrom. she was a great laugher, and a great smile, and a great body, and pretty — yes, she was all those things. but not like you. your laugh made me call you from thousands of miles away. your smile stood below mine in the mirror in the morning when you made fun of me. your body, well. I don’t have the time to describe. art. form and void.
when I touched her, she laughed. when you slammed the door in my face, I laughed. people do crazy things. people are fundamentally crazy, or perhaps we’re just sane and pretending. I don’t wish I knew. there are a lot of mysteries in life and I am only willing to part with the magic for some of them. when I touched her, I was spinning into the depths. when you slammed the door in my face, I came up for air. I don’t know what you thought. that I hated you. that I no longer wanted you. that I had always been thinking of other women, of other things. that my heart echoed not with your name, but just the rattling emptiness of hormones and boredom.
but I loved you, like fire and songs, because that is how I love. until I do crazy things. I won’t ever change, not until I die.
the memory of her laughter is all I can recall about her, what became of the rest of her I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. I loved you all along, but she was beautiful too, in the way that all women are — exotic and painful and unlocking, always becoming more complicated and wonderful. I knew when I touched her, I hurt you, and I hurt myself. perhaps that is why she loved it. perhaps that is why she laughed. now you are gone, and bigger than me, and I am still a boy who knows nothing, who plays with his toys and stares upwards not knowing just what to wonder.
and you will crack the sky with your dreams, darling.