Monday November 22nd 2010
Month of gloom and sludge. Feet cold beneath the desk watching rain slide down window panes. I'm thinking about what we said and how we said it and rage and tears and despair. That's not like us, or is it? What's gone wrong? Or going wrong? The other night (Saturday, the night before you left) you said it was 'over' again because of some insult or other. I'd said you were arrogant or conceited or both. I've said it before and I know it's not true. Oh but you do like the sound of your own voice, as my mother would say. Before you said you loved my glad babble but now it just repeats and drags. Have I run out of things to say? Run out of steam, of juice, of salt? Am I jealous because yours darts and streaks light-footed across the pitch of the green wool blanket that covers both our knees? Jealous because you hog the conversation - wild-boar you. Disappointed that I let you when I too have something to say only I don't think so quickly or that I don't trust my thoughts and turn them over, examining first fallen apples for worms.
Whisky soured stink of despair. I wish you didn't want to die. Remember just that morning you smoked to spite the steep path and we stopped to look at the mute city stacked against the sky? Were you thinking of dieing then while I was trying to figure perspective and trying not to imagine a world without you in it? You bastard. You put that chasm before me and even my long arms can't reach across, except that they can and then I realise I should have been doing that all the while and saved us some of the grief. Warmth and simplicity. Warmth and simplicity. Let's not forget that's all we need for now.
