If I moved to Paterson, would I meet Laura
of my own, and if so, what are the chances
that after the summer she wouldn’t turn out
to be Monika? I guess this is a futile question,
as not only am I not going anywhere near there,
but I actually hardly ever leave the house.
Perhaps it’s not strange to be careful around fire
after burning your hands, but when does caution
turn into cowardice?
One day I was alone, then you came,
and I was alone again.
I guess I wasn’t that good at inventing dreams,
and my hands tend to get sweaty.
When you were still here, I couldn’t decide
whether I was young or old. Now that you are gone,
I shower only so often; I open a book
but don’t always read it—sometimes I just enjoy
the texture of the paper; and I save my voice,
or perhaps I’m simply too embarrassed to talk
to myself. But at least I can finally laugh
about my age dilemma.
Does six miles on a bike count as a passing grade
in the arithmetic of cookies and pebbles,
or is it just plain old me trying to pretend
that it doesn’t matter how much my body can take,
as long as your smile covers the fundamentals
of cruelty—thanks to Niépce and the Lumière brothers
keeping alive the taste of cheap tinned peaches
served on peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast
with a cup of rooibos tea, already cold
and somewhat salty?
I always liked watching you undress,
but we never talked, and you would often laugh
at my sudden lack of confidence every time our eyes met.
Perhaps that was the problem, and now that all that’s left
easily fits under the crumpled sheet, it’s too late
to repeat the absent words, at least until I relearn the language
of picnics and mint chocolate—a rather meagre price
for indulgence.
When I was young, I wanted to be bold again and again
and write a verse, or better yet, a song.
When I was young, I wanted to hear your giggle
as we switched the dust jackets of Walt Whitman’s books
to pass them off as Jackie Collins’.
When I was young, I wanted to name all the constellations
that illuminate your face so that no one ever again would dare to say
they’re just freckles.
When I was young, I wanted to build a house out of the finger strokes
on the keys of your piano and my typewriter, so we could furnish it
with the gentle brushes of fingertips over lips.
When I was young, I wanted to believe we would never end up
among the Kramers, Hillards, and the like.
Who is to judge if I’m wasting my life?
As far as nature is concerned,
I have already fulfilled my sole purpose
by passing on my genes.
Now all that’s left is to sustain my body
to the very end, whenever that may be.
All the rest is fodder that I convinced myself
I needed to stay determined to breathe:
buy a book, read a book, go to the beach,
tell someone you wish you loved them
no more.
So, here I am, turning quinquagenarian soon—no longer young, but not quite old yet either.
I decided to change something in my life, and since great things start small, or so they say,
I changed a detail—my briefs for boxers. I also spotted a tiny hole in the heel of the sock
I wore this morning, and for a brief moment, I weighed the pros and cons of darning it
or throwing it away, which is odd because I never paid much attention to my garment before,
so what difference does it make now that we parted ways?
I’ve watched very many films—very bad ones—for a single line only,
and I’m gradually realising how these one-liners pave my sense of artificiality.
But I’ll be all right, I guess. It’s not like we stop making dinners
just because we burn our fingers once or twice.
For now, though, I think I’ll stick to silent cinema.
Who knows, maybe it will be like those avocado sandwiches
and chamomile tea that you first eat to soothe an upset stomach,
but after a while, they simply become your regular breakfast.
You know it’s time to leave when every breakfast becomes an act
of desperation, and yet you prolong this little la-la land in denial
as if a stuffed croissant with café au lait were the epitome of certainty.
Didn’t you admit long ago that someone else had already spared you
from the hell of paradise? Knowing you, I doubt you have any desire
to answer. If anything, you’d pretend there was no question asked.
And there is still the unrewarding experience of returning home,
which sounds a bit melodramatic, even for someone like you,
but if you wanted to, it could simply be reduced to a logistics problem.
After all, a broken heart can’t find solace in complaining about cold feet.
If I were to play a word association game,
the first thing that comes to mind
when love is mentioned would be films.
I don’t know how well it describes love,
but it certainly says quite a bit about me,
especially since I’m writing this at 1 a.m.,
after a day spent in my pyjamas
watching ‘Une nouvelle amie’ and ‘A Single Man’
on loop.
hidden pilcrow 