Our Timeline

We counted our way to the door. In forked maneuvers of the lips. The only fact in life is that it is a cumulative treason. One moment indefinitely betraying the next. In every tiny way that we attempt to love each other. And all the roadblocks that convince us we did.

We didn't count the bottles as the bed swum beneath us. Wave after wave drilling into the choke of thoughtless escapes. In the luxury of my stupor I asked him how it felt. To be inside someone.

I was absent when it finally won. But I was present for the surrender. If it's still fair to calculate it in those terms. If it's still amenable to say what a pleasure it was to lose him.

In my timeline there are no minutes. Or hours. Just people. Lives to barter for smaller treats. Milky Ways in old pillowcases failing under the paper beards of sober pirates. Plastic hooks ringing the doorbells of strangers. And the sweet, sweet assurance of chocolate in every intrusion.

I didn't expect you to know I wasn't myself then. I just thought it'd be different once I was.