ennui. this isn’t another of my low-iron dreams. the kitchen is deaf with nothing but your hands waddling cold water and when the onion meets the chopping board, you tell me, almost in a sliver of a breath, that you’re going. because you’re the kind of person who smokes from the other end of the blunt and sleeps with the lights on and calls children humanlings, i know what you mean. i glance at the potted plant wilting on the windowsill, just almost there – almost in the light.

i asked once if plants feel lonely
if that plant was dying because of want for a garden
camaderie
and you said Marijuana didn’t do better with our soil.

i watch the mechanical motion of your bareback and my mind drifts back to the hand job you gave me three months ago, my penis in a half erectile state. i shrivel in guilt as I wonder if this action is a hormonal response to my lover saying they’re dying. and it makes sense.

i know what meal you’re making. it’s an apology for dying. so i make a note on a post-it of all the things one could apologize for: the way you say my poetry is bad and I’m better at touching bodies than words – i think about setting you on fire – and sometimes you’re unsure if you love me – i lose count of them because it’s hard to deny you penance when your dress is above your head. sometimes sin is God’s plea to be human. the palm oil sunset gives way for dusk and three minutes later food is ready. we mumble inscrutable platitudes before we eat. you’re more catholic than i am but you always tease that God is hungry and it’s rude to let him starve. i surmise your blasphemy has caught up with you but i will think anything to will you to stay.

this is what will happen next: the tenure of termination; the race to rot. one day, one month and one year. we watch a film you love so much about a man who wants to be the messiah and your tears hit my head when he says amidst the darkness, a tall white fountain played. i will break your stupid plant to feel like God – wallow in the thrill of destruction and realize later that we’re alike. almost. your last words will be i will remember your mother’s name and for what it’s worth, i watch you heave your last and slip an inside joke between myself and God that you’re in hell because you’re not one to follow rules.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Kelly Moon on Unsplash