You, leaning against the wall eyes half closed, an insertion into other people’s daylight. And me, unsure on the cold floor like a teenager’s crudely abandoned clothes.
Out of context, out of place.
In this place.
You compared yourself to Carver, slurring through most of New Path To The Waterfall. I was almost like you once, you said, but then failed to situate your indictment.
I say nothing when you stumble again reading So Much Water So Close To Home. Your focus lost, I look up through damp air smelling of cedar, a visceral longing for anywhere but here.
Later, shadows flicker with each sway you make as if afraid their light will fall away. Your bloodshot eyes meet mine, unspoken admonishment begins to which you plead silent deferral. Your gaze is the first to break when I look through you to a place never there, while voiceless echoes of everything I almost said are lost to the night and cedar air.