the sky is made of a deep lavender and swirls of separated light and tonight i listened to the music we did, danced to the coffee and uncatena, watched as sylvan esso brought me back. i had a date with me during the debacle. it went horribly, resembling more booger than boogie. she left mad at me for something. i could not figure it out. perhaps i stepped on her feet or her on mine and i didn’t notice. i was other places, finding the light that stayed around, wondering if the coffee is still warm if no one drank it and no one moved and all was still as it once was in a room no bigger than a casket, a room where life truly began with you.
the placenta is cold in my hand, the blood cannot be put back, the baby is filled with parasites that will come when she is 42 and eats raw beef and 35 when her aunt was murdered on the street and 19 when she thought she was going to die, but does not. things survive. life lives tenaciously.
i said to her, i said, “life lives tenaciously.” she said, “what the fuck are you talking about kacper? no one understands you. this is why you are often alone.”
many things are alone. the sky is, for there is only one. the sun is not, but it likes to believe it is. i am not either, though i try to unthink this, unbelieve that even in loneliness, there are people who feel like i do: unfelt.
the song ends. its echo does not, however. does it travel? did it see that you too are still dancing to esso? warning: her second album is not as good. perhaps this waning is what happens. the second time around, someone is not so good at loving the thing they’ve become, but mostly, not. even the flower will wilt when worn. the sky closes to morning like a bruise.
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