… is there nothing left to say?


Next Year … Some Year (this year)

Millay was right when she said they all have lied.

There hasn’t been any day, in any week, in any month – not a single day since then. I would take just one – a series of 24 successive hours where you don’t invade my heart thoughts.

A solid sleep, a quiet morning, an inconsequential afternoon. An evening where you cannot be tasted in the vodka and sadness that burns in my throat … and a night where you do not come to me, unbidden, when I first close my eyes.

I would take just one of these days from back, before.

There is absence and then there is this. The silent, suspended ever-presence. The way the saxophone mourns on my favourite song. The hundred little ways you won’t go away. They said there would come an easier time, the scientists and the lovers too. But it doesn’t heal a thing, you know.

I suspect it merely drives it deeper.

Rock Bublitz at body, remember

What I was writing five years ago. FIVE YEARS! Always interesting to sit down with my ghosts …

A small stain

It’ll pass. It always does.

Right now, I’m a walking bruise. Staring into space and mirrors, seeing only you.

Right now the days are lost to hours spent. Isn’t that the way it goes? There’s no moving time when she isn’t ready to heal you.

But it’ll pass. It always does.

I’ll wake and dress and stare and smile and laugh and cry and ache, like I’m music you once played, over and over. I’ll be the melody you can’t yet get out of your head.

It’ll pass. It always does.


You left a small stain this time. When you poured your red and drank it from me. Right over the place they put my heart. Like we’d been doing it wrong till then.

And now.

There’s a small stain, you left.

It’ll pass. It always does.

Until we come around again.

Rock Bublitz at body, remember

All I ask is …

There are ways for us to end this

Speak the words you have swallowed. We have nine years of silence to fill. Let us crowd this night with all we have not said, let us cover every last second with our secrets. Whisper them soft and sure against my skin. Tell me goodbye, and tell me why.

Dust me for your fingerprints one last time, hold me up to the light and see yourself all over. Know that you were here. Here we are. Grasp at what we will leave behind. There are ways for us to end this.

Love me just enough. Then let me go. Hold tight all through these midnight hours, then stand up and watch me walk away.

My darling, there are ways for us to end this.

(Move to the window when I close the door. Press your forehead against that double glass, and strain to keep me in your sight. Stay with me – won’t you, please? Watch me tremble away from you into the night).

We have always known tomorrow would come.


To get what you want. And yet. It is still an ending. We’re only ever telling stories. The living part – it hurts, no matter how you decide to tell it.

 I miss you.