2003-04-22

2003-04-22 - 3:19 p.m.

Here I am outside the Museo de Picasso in Paris, June 2002. I love the red coat. J had the digital camera that day and was playing with the red coat, green door.

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I miss him. We're still together and I miss him. We're not the same. We never will be.

By that June, we were already deeply in trouble. I'm not sure where it started, but a year later, we're still working on things. Now we have an Intern Therapist - I think of her with capital letters to make myself take her seriously. After four years of hard-core help from an MFCC, it's hard to take anyone else seriously. Of course, I am running the risk of turning into a Woody Allen character. Four years with a therapist? Yeah, yeah.

But I miss him. This is the poem he gave me yesterday for my 29th birthday.

blowing bubbles in the air
you and i afloat
tumbled and air dried
your delicious apple hair tousled across those silt eyes
that trap me like quicksand
you kept me bouyed
teetering in the currents
the curves and folds of the flesh that melt away
like vanilla ice cream in root beer.
before long
you and i
asphyxiated in our bubble
until we collapsed and sank beneath the surface past the fish and birds
do i have gills?
do you have wings?
funny how i miss our connection
our straight line that rounds us.

***

Oh lord. I do miss him. What are we doing?

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