I have stopped caring. It’s not a sudden thing, it is noticing you are in a desert when you are a day from water or trees. It has surrounded me and found nothing left of what we all had called love so spuriously, concern or even constant worrying. No matter. Would they want it now?
I know where I am going. It is out there like a sign, like a cross planted in the mud of my heart. I can’t escape it like I can her now, the possibility of it, that I can even think it, this is the ruin of its ever happening, a cold head raised like a sail above what, the pure ruin of love.
You would feel it, I would. Does she? I feel it with hands equally real. I look for the last word on our page and read it like permission. This is blasphemy. I look with my hands on her face. I feel for the crease of her mouth that once was so much more but there are no eyes left to see it. I have it like an idea only this inaction is more. It is a world waning into void, so near but soon, not near enough. How can this be a direction? We move apart. We are still here. They say we will be different but nothing has changed, nothing ever does. I do not hold the door open, I do not wait. If she comes through I will not know it. I do not honk before leaving, I am there, she is not, I go. I turn back down a life of sidewalks, return to the street, my car, living as only a memory does, dependent, foreign in its cradle and still this splendid thing, not held like this photo is, all that’s left.
“Wait.” she calls from behind me, and it makes me still here.
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