I explained but it’s never enough. My voice is hoarse. But that does not matter. I have another group of people to explain things to. You’d think I can use less words while I do it–but no: once I start I feel compelled to keep going. And worse is I have to mean everything I say. The problem is, when I feel remorse, it’s when no one is around–it hits hard then, when I’m alone and I double over in guilt and shame. I think I can only feel remorse when no one is watching.

The days I think about him are the days I think about my own sanity. I loved you. I needed you. The first time we were together, so much of you came out that I thought to myself: This man could get someone seriously pregnant.

No. I refuse to reflect on that.

I remember such good movies, and if I think of them long enough, I remember who I saw them with. Because some of those people hurt me, and some I hurt, the movie develops its own movie. I become the characters. The movie I loved then watches me, judges me, thinks about who hurt it.

Gentle winds over fierce mountains. Fierce mountains over gentle winds. Winds and mountains licking each other, taking turns dominating each other. Who wins? Who amounts to anything? Nature doesn’t think like this. But I do. I want a winner and a loser.

The problem is I don’t know who I want to win and who I want to lose.

It can be found around the corner, on the way to the drugstore or better yet, just inside your bed covers, right on your pillow. Just listen, don’t look for it. Just listen for your breathing. In and out, in and out. Air. Give it a name. (But doesn’t “air” already have a name?)

Give it a name!

Okay: Hi there______.

What really happens in these instances of identifying and naming, is that, apparently, no one listens and then you find your named Air sailing sailing in and out of you. You can’t quite find it’s beginning and end. When exhaled it’s above you, looking down. When inhaled, it is as your mercy. Or is it. Doesn’t air hold all the cards?

And what does Buddy-Breath say? as it hovers above your head?

Well? You ask, waiting for an answer.

Well? You ask impatiently.

The answer: “Don’t hold your breath.”

My fingers curl differently–meaning they don’t really curl at all. I can’t grip a baseball anymore.

I remember back in the day when it seemed my whole body could swallow a baseball–seams and all. Staring from my palm, and somehow disappearing down my wrist and through my forearm, as if it were an esophagus.
Now baseballs eat me, little by little, until I am only safe from this consumption, by watching the game on television.

The department story shone from various corners and racks. I heard the word No, from Sean. Then his: “Shush.”

But I wasn’t talking–yet. But he was about to–but had not–yet. He knew me so well. Every utterance of the last few weeks was calculated as one of his software programs. He never asked me a Yes or No question since the date we met. And I avoided these yes and no’s too. Because I was always sure what he would say.

And knew I would talk before he did. Hence: Shush. But he didn’t stop me. I uttered words as he did, and soon our shouts rang up through the hallowed walls of the department store, until security was called.

Punished by the gods, as a gift to you, I hold your spirit in my mind. You can leave it at any time, but if you choose to stay, to infiltrate me, knead my thoughts, then you must pay.

Join me. We can conquer the world, together.