There was a time that we said what we meant. A time that we meant what we said with such heartfelt grace that a new religion formed in the expansive metaphysical territories we shared. We pictured a thousand new autumns, winters, springs, and summers for ourselves. Especially the summers: full of traveling, workshops, orgies. We built upon the shaky tarantuline legs of our new religion an entire life. We spend days feeding on each other, subsisting on conversations and dreams, curiosities, lines of questioning, thoughts. We left some worlds behind. In our absence the figs were half-eaten by ants and demolished by the heat, shriveled into unrecognizable inedible husks. Whole groups of friends went like bunches of parsley left in the sun, browning and wilting and then festering, oozing, stinking like cat piss. We crawled up in this hole and we stayed there. High on our second floor deck, looking over our tiny row-house dominion. The catholic church. The funeral home. The alley cats. I didn’t want to stay but I didn’t want to leave you behind. But you took so long! So I left. So many reasons to leave. None of them good enough for you, or for me really, except the pleasure was amazing. The pleasure of leaving. Of being places familiar and alien and all just a bit more realistic (rrrreeeeeeeeeL IS TIK) and practical (prrrr ACK tickle) and productive (pro duck tif). Or at least there was new and lots of sex. Something happened new and I liked that and if you were hurt then I’m sorry I loved you but I don’t any more. I mean I do. But I can’t, not really. I forget how to. I’m bad at it. I do and you won’t let me. More excuses. Etc.
Then there was a last time we had sex before we knew it was our last. I don’t remember it. You probably don’t either. There would be no way to know. You don’t talk to me anymore. And my sisters, my parents, my grandparents – you charmed them so hard they forgot your age and still ask about you – you, who they have not seen for many many months. There was a last time we kissed, which I think I remember but it’s hard because suddenly, in retrospect, your lips seem so small. Very soft, and very small, and just a little too wet. Your hands will always be big but the rest of you has shrunk and may in fact continue to shrink until one day you break apart into many pieces in order to feed other things that are going the opposite way of shrinking, that is to say, growing. But I may not know you at all then, if you keep not talking, I may loose myself and forget that you ever existed or that once you were the key unlocking all the universe, my heart and cunt, my head, my big full lips.