It’s been two, three weeks between us and now I can’t tell anymore where you are or when you think of me. I feel a space where you used to live, occupying a desert land with your stubborn roots and flags. A bare weed, all bones and thorns, refusing to let go.
You wanted me until you didn’t know that what you wanted was me. You ran to me happy and afraid and excited and you held on to my sleeve tugging as I walked digging your heels in the ground in protest until I stopped—just for a moment—to hear your pleas.
“Don’t go.” You begged. “Let me stay. Please” I refused and refused again but with two-three weeks between us, I acquiesced in my own mind- on my own desert land, I agreed to let “it” be and you- to raise a flag.
What “it” was- wasn’t clear. Not to you, not to me. You wanted- I knew that much. Wanted me. There, ready, at Her Loneliness’ disposal. A part of you wanted and another part wanted something else…to not want? Perhaps.
With two-three weeks between us, you found an answer as you always did: fast, mercilessly, indulgingly. It’ll take a week, a month, three months…a year. You’ll laugh and drink and make passionate love or sex—whichever it may be. You’ll feel you’ve grown, evolved, accomplished so much. You’ll travel and come back with great stories to tell in your sweet-plum voice. You'll later use them to accompany a slideshow to a client on some phone line in some office. But when Her Loneliness comes back for a visit, all this will be shed and drop away like leaves in October and you’ll be back to your desert land and warm sands back here.
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