When reporters ask for the secret, you are good at hedging: hard work is a sweet way to say obsession. Pathology is prettier when masked in music.
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With my suitcases packed & the sky creased to its perfect middle, I’m the most beautiful I’ve ever been without having already left.
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How many times can you choose the thing that hurts before you can’t call it an accident anymore.
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Eyes open; sunlight pressing its tired hopeful nose against the horizon.
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But my god, her hands made me want to play the piano again. That’s always how I know I’m fucked, when their hands are something music.
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The story is the same always: one of you leaves first & you both know who it’s going to be.
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I wanted to plant a garden with her, but her winter was my spring & none of the days moved slowly enough to catch.
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The year I first fell in love with a girl was the year I stopped playing the piano.
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Like all good stories, she & I began with remembering.
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I am not a person who gets angry often.
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