Sunday 23 June 2013

Car Seat

                We sat side by side in my car on top of a hill overlooking the city. And the lights glittered like dragonflies and they didn’t remind me of your eyes. And he spoke of longing I no longer felt and I wondered why. Because you used to make me feel everything. And we’re sleeping side by side on reclined black seats and the steering wheel points to nowhere. And we’re poised on top of this hill and the moon is full and bursting and I miss you. But you’re just a city stretched out like a lover and your eyes are dark like the night and they glitter like city lights. It’s harder at night darling because at night emptiness is free of preoccupation and there is nothing to think of but lost closeness and empty wishes. And I wish you were here. But I don’t think of you then, no, I think of the way his voice ripples over the stereo and I’m not lonely because I can’t long for something that was not mine to love. We’re poised on this hill overlooking doubts and fears and reasons for leaving. I have plenty but he has none. My hands are empty and his are full and I used to be full of you. But your dress is ripped and you’re staying behind. And soon I’ll be looking down over glittering city lights and I wonder if I’ll be able to miss you.
                And I wonder if I envy his sadness because it is the kind of sadness that is full, swelling like the moon and bright, the light that blinds your eyes in the morning and pulses into the depth of the night. And mine is a resigned throbbing of constance that is deafening and intoxicating and barely noticeable so you think it’s just a part of you. And maybe that’s why I think I don’t miss you because missing you has just dissolved into the sadness that was there before your bright eyes and ripped dress and crinkly eye smile relieved me like a lover when you weren’t mine to love. I’m just drunk on what we could have been and I don’t think of this in the day, only when the city lights touch the parts of me that you left empty.
                So I curl up on the black seat of my car and it’s tilted back under the full moon and city lights and I look at the cds overflowing and the dirty window and him next to me, the way he reminds me of how I used to be.

                And sometimes I think I miss you.

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