#7 Next Week

>> October 20, 2013

Next year, we’ll move to New York,
and we will live 
in a tiny apartment 
with the paint peeling off walls.
We’ll spend the evenings
sprawled on a green rug,
where you will write
and I will read,
and we’ll look around
at our things,
yours and mine,
books and memories and other
broken things
neatly stacked
on the steps of the ladder
in our loft.
We’ll walk bare-feet
on wooden floors, and drink
cheap wine for breakfast.
We’ll skip lunch
to make love on the terrace,
to the city lights and sounds.
We’ll look out the windows,
through pale yellow curtains 
and lean over
the potted blue-bells
that you picked
and I love
and we’ll watch the busy streets,
and the sparkling lights, we will
look up and feel small
and big, 
all at once
under the Manhattan skyline.

Next week, we'll  move to New York,
and we'll remember 
how, like children,
we were,
when we talked about living
in New York, and 
when we were in love.

As is wont with a heart broken like mine, I read some things over and over again.

I read them one more time, hoping that I will discover something that I haven’t caught before, some emotion that I inadvertently missed, some idiosyncrasy of yours I don’t already know so well, so bad.  I know now, more than I ever did, your favourite words and go-to metaphors. I seek solace in the way you break up your near-perfect sentences, the way you capitalize some words to personify the objects and obsessions that define you (and sometimes, us). I feel a certain warm familiarity when I predict a phrase that is coming even before you do, I seek succour in the intimacy I feel with your mind, your machine, with your “idiom”, if I may.

And as I read, as I am vindicated, I rest assured in the certain knowledge that even though everything else that I once thought infallible has been cruelly wrenched away from me now, I will always, unfailingly, have your words.

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