Feeling a double dip today. My brain is in this spot again, the spot it was when I wrote this a few years back. I am clinging to it. Help!
There is always someone else.
In front of me rest broken books, bindings cheaply done with adhesive rather than sewn, which are easier to repair. I thumb the pages of one, leading up to the break, then the spine where it is exposed on the inside, a rubbery and rough surface, opaque and riddled with lint and dust; so easy to destroy; so easy to overlook.
These have been silent hours, since you have returned. Fingers smelling of one too many cigarettes run under my nose. Drinks poured for two rest on the counter, giving us the illusion of company. They are easily downed, forgotten and refilled. They will numb for a moment. Then when the drilling begins, the persistent pushing in the front of my head will push everything but you in black aside. Pages and pages written here. I read them with different voices to pretend they are not about you. I have colored a cover in bright blues to make everything seem pleasant.
You’re casual as usual. Something in that pretty accent that brings me back to your mouth. “These are my broken things.” You say with a tiny inflection on the center word, a cautious reminder that there are things we do not share, though we have both touched them, both carried them. It is easier to assign a label, a name for them, make them be. I am sewing with heavy twine, the broken sections together, forcing them to interact in unnatural ways. They will resist, much like I do when you offer another set of expectations.
I am over sewn.