Dearborn

I want to rewrite your brief career in fiction writing. I'm sucking on my pen and sending you back to September, before you'd slipped into something I can't dissuade you from. I fell through the floor of that tower, once, love, and if I know you've the energy to take down cement with your fingernails, I don't know how to talk you into it.

Up all night with the television on won't erase the strain of suspicion all through your tendons. It seeps in instead, greying matters, seeding nightmare and washing out color. I can't stand the awful morning-after, the bleak and the chill that comes of waking early near someone you haven't loved in too long.

There will always be affection, darling. I'm just a girl and you just were. We're both chasing with the boys nowadays, dropping femme for fatale and rotting our teeth on candy before we realize that someday we'll be too old for this. Like as not I'll be chasing you down again, summer and winter after. There's always a season between ours. We can dream beside each other, but I'll never make the trip and you'll never see as me.

Is there a whole coterie who'd take my being? I'm just sitting alone, in bed, breathing away the stabbing pains in maroon felt boots. The rabbit fur is quiet around my calves and I ought to sleep. Facebook wants me to reconnect with a girl dead more than a century now, but Max's problems are enough to keep anyone up at night.