It isn’t that I hate you. Sometimes I say it because I still want your name in my mouth. Because I used to say your name every day and I miss the sound it makes through tongue and teeth. I miss the ownership, implicit – the way it placed you at my centre. Your name back then was my punctuation, the meaning made, my intonation. It was everything I said and all I left out. Every ellipses led back to you.
Of course it isn’t that I hate you. Though you may hear it said from time to time. It’s just that, still, your name reminds. Do you know that hotel? someone asked just today, and I thought at once of tangled sheets, of my heart on your chest, of counting down. Of the inevitable demise of counterfeit hours – with you and I sequestered there. You and I holding on. This may be a dream was heard in that hotel (tomorrow was made for some.)
But I can’t say Yes! I know! And how! So your name becomes my opposition. I spin some kind of head-on collision (well, it speaks of impact just the same). I’m pushed against you, and against you now. With nothing ever given away. And nothing ever, ever forgotten. It seems when you can no longer tell the truth, all you have is a story.
(And I wasn’t writing about you all this time. I was writing to you. So don’t believe a thing I say, okay? Just the way I say it …)
Image by Joanne Piechota