I am letting you take my confidence. Illusive looks at each question, eyes darting up and to the right (and I am never sure if that means you are making it all up, or accessing memory), telling me where your heart currently resides, what makes you giddy. If you were more powerful, you could do this all without stealing. but you have always said, stolen coffee tastes better than other coffee. I cannot help but agree as we sit, sipping, contemplating our collective night sky, where stars have shifted with the orbit of the earth and the ones we used to count in a straight line have become crooked, like our hearts.

Nostalgic for the times when I saw you less, or the times when I saw you every day; full of deliberate touching, or when you wore that same red shirt and savvy jeans. I could let my fingers wander to the back of your neck, feel you pushing into me, holding your breath, just in case. Instead we find ourselves here, everything measured and heavy, and I am less liberated by it.

Together we have written words numbering thousands. Borrowed phrases from songs and singers, writers and cowards who left us such stinging discourse that we did not trust our own voices to say what we might have felt, thought we were feeling, wanted to feel. How could we know better than they? Euphonious voices all of them, even the screamers, now blending to this gnat like hum, picking at the back of my head.

I drink some more. Blackened, acidic and necessary. Something ritualistic and comforting in the process. You are only taking what is given and no one can fault you for that.


About Ryan Carty

There are some who call me, Tim?

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