What it's like is that sometimes I don't think I can say anything directly, that I feel like all conversations have to make a stop at metaphor and line before we can get to where we're going. We get in the car with a dream I had. You start the trip when you say it's your fault, and it's not, but when I say it's not you start crying and you say "I wish you never brought it up" which I never meant to make you cry but if I could take one thing from you this burden would be first: I have to bring it up so I can lift it away from you.
I am not accustomed to handing other people tissues. What I mainly do is take charge and fix stuff and later on I cry alone. I mean that's why I have tissues in the first place: for me. I am not supposed to hand them to you and definitely I did not mean to make you cry and anyway why are you crying when I tell you it's not your fault, because this is not a sad thing but a statement of fact like how the beer garden is going to close soon is a fact. I mean it's just a thing.
It is hard to have nothing to invoke. For the love of poetry, I try. Oh, for Prufrock. Please don't cry. Please let me take this sadness from you and please for both of us let's throw it away far, down the field, far out. Let's throw it past the boy counting dandelions in the outfield, past anybody in the stands; let's make it something that nobody finds because nobody wants it. Let's steal home. It's not your fault. It's full of damage but we can't trace fault lines. Instead let's look towards construction that can weather the whether. Let's get past sports and geology and blame. Let's stop crying. We're running out of tissue.
Comments