It is my birthday, not hers, two years after the fact, of a celebration that went sour, water dripping through my open fingers or maybe my blood, still dripping from the bar stool I abandoned that night long ago, trailing behind me, though I was later to learn she bled on the inside, and I was too stupid or arrogant or blind to see.
I don’t pass that tavern or go down that road I fled up from
it without thinking these things, hearing her voice wail over the telephone:
why did you leave me, while at the time I thought – maybe mistakenly – I did
not matter and that she would get along perfectly fine without me, and so was
all the more shocked at how upset she got, and how bad it all felt, as it all
crumbled around us, this thing we did not know we had shared, and later (at
least with me) missed greatly and could never get back, a bitter birthday
present to myself, I carry around my neck like a mill stone.
No comments:
Post a Comment