read into this.part two
...but in the middle of some mornings, the middle road of Main Street sounds much more appealing. But, I breathe in and chip away at the furthest thing from a manicure and know I’m not the only one.
Magnets, you know, magnets, right?
There is the basketball star turned ivy league who curls up on my bed and ticks philosophy; taking the String Theory and making it Cat’s Cradle, telling jokes that make me laugh until it’s just another excuse to kiss. It’s fun but I lie awake at night and wonder if the Coma Berenices enjoy being used as a mere pawn for a night in my underwear. I suspect the answer is “no” so I keep the curtains shut to keep out the stars, in case they see me and go, “Please, this isn’t right.” We map out theories on each others skin until the poles change. He pouts and growls “why don’t you care” when I roll him away and we both leave with dishevelment to rival nonlinear dynamics.
There is one who knows he looks like an old movie star and drives me 90 different kinds of mad. Zip codes instead of genius theory better explain that one, as these two different types of blue were never supposed to mix. But the universe likes to laugh while peering down at a too hot wrestling match between buying into and avoiding all of those psychological theories. I wish he were boring because I’m afraid of his face or what he might know, but I swallow the fear and it keeps me from ever lying to him, as we pin to the wall film, Freud, urban geography, Salinger, and the stories of the crumbles of people who used to get better drinks than us at parties. He tugs at my hair and my hands and my hem, and we kick each other away but no one gets bruised.
There is one who I met through all the other ones. He calls me from a a studio in Nashville to sing me songs he knows I hate. We meet in Amish Country where he tells inquiring fans that I'm his wife. We jump on the bed with Muse too loud and our drinks stain the ceiling of the cheap Days Inn, and then he traces my arms with his fingers and talks about a house in Miami, in Montreal, in Montego Bay. “You can have your own bed, pas mal, oui, love?” he reviles and I tell him that’s good, since he refuses to leave mine. We have everything and keep each other from yawning at it all. If we ever let our own theories of Stoicism , cognition, and behavior slip from our lips, cities could be ours in afternoons. But fear of it all takes the gold, and that keeps us distances that only 747s could scale 363 days of the year.
But this morning, I was alone. It felt like something had been stolen. Normal thought and calmness had finally had a coup d’etat over all the vociferous theory that usually spins my mind. “Oh fuck” is all I had as a poptart dropped out of my hand. We’ll never admit what has to happen.
