16b

he sometimes breaks down like an old sputtery car and weeps to me saying that he had always felt like he was meant to be alone. but here i am in our bed. striped blanket that i’ve made in the mornings. maybe it all stems from undercurrents of just how close it came to that conclusion. a rainy day at auto zone and feeling i could touch. many things broke and died that day. but it had to be done. he doesn’t talk much anymore about him. but it’s best that the questions were stopped. at least something did. birth, death. i can’t see.

15b

dip your pen into that inkwell of mystery and inflame my ears with that hidden childhood and moody thoughts so that i can hope to understand. one day. two days ago and you creaked open so i could peek – try to cram my hand in to reach. and touch. wiggle of the fingers as that item teased and danced between my grasp. but as quickly as i can enjoy, you shut. settle into the routine. burrow and throw on the cloak of formality. the hum of errands and distraction drown out probings. until the next time – snap.