perigee

prose, writing

I heard your voice over the phone and I thought I knew where you were and how to tell you.

In the story of other people we aren’t so different. The look you gave me under the boughs was no different from the look other people share under street signs, in the glow of the bar lights, in front of closed windows, in their doorways, their spaces, their own orbitals; we are onlygreener. Only greener.

Looking at the moon in without anything to compare it to, you wouldn’t notice any difference in size. If you want to be involved in this discussion here are the available times: one day past all the others where we don’t talk to anyone else, that time of morning when I do the rounds and water my plants while you make your third coffee, that point of perigee when all we can comprehend is the fact that we are together. Add on that time late at night when I can only stay up and stare at the clock as it ticks away during jazz hour because you are there and not here. I look at the pillow from every angle and wonder if that’s how you really see it or if I just want you to see it like I do.

Last night you weren’t here and I thought the wind was running through the trees so loud that they would fall over and ruin someone else’s life, right there in the middle of dinner, right when they were sleeping, laughing, crying. When they weren’t expecting it. I can sympathize; that’s very much what you did to me, but I was the one who let you in. The wind couldn’t care what I think. The wind never knocks and asks.