i hated gallery openings.
there
were usually a few
girls, sure,
but they were
“artists
waiting
for inspiration”
so,
while
waiting for whatever
divine intervention
comes
to paint people’s canvases
for them,
the girls brought
the cocaine
and they lay
on their
backs
pretty easy.
she came to me
once, my first
gallery opening
and said, “i know
you’re going
to break
my heart”.
she
hadn’t
cut her bangs
yet (though she would)
and she hadn’t
shed her winter fat
(though she would)
but i kissed her anyway
because
i’m easy
and i understand
why women leave
bars with men
who look
like
they were
born old
and never been boys
in love.
it’s the same reason
i kissed her,
she gave me
something.
i just needed
to feel that i mattered
that night
and i knew
i mattered
to her
it felt
like
high school.
they were all
against us
and we
were winning.
she’d make me write.
her desk was
filled with ashtrays
and coke lines
and photography
books.
i’d write
a paragraph
and she would shriek
and the dog would jump
on its back legs
and they would dance
around me.
it was never morning.
she could spin
the moon so
the night
lasted forever.
an entire winter
of cocaine
and a spanish beauty
and a dog.
i never had
any money
but she didn’t care.
she kept cooking
kept supplying
and i kept promising
that
someday when
i made it
all the dedications
would be hers.
the artists all
loved her.
no one had any
money
and we all
needed
booze
and drugs
and love
and she gave it,
never
asked for any in return.
the spoils
were mainly for
me
and i’d promise her
things
but never stopped taking.
and one night
she cried and
begged me
to
never leave her alone.
and of course,
i said
ok.
but we never
robbed
the bank
together.
and we didn’t
steal the car
and drive
to california.
she needed
a life
that was hers.
it was the first time
i saw
fear in her
eyes.
our scene couldn’t operate
without her
but the world
could
live
without
our scene
i’d tell
her someday
the readers would
know what
she did.
at our worst
she held us
like the mother
most were
missing.
and then
one
day
i left
and i
didn’t think
much of
what her life
would be
without me
because
i never thought
much
of myself.
now it’s
all I
think
about.
what
a promise
means. she
made the world
a better place,
maybe two
people
in history
could
say that.
and
there’s the
last night,
when i
said, “fuck you”
and left.
there’s still
a lot of night
still dogs
still blow
but
air and water signs
they’ve
never been
so
separate.
it doesn’t
feel like
high school
now.
they’re still
against us
but
that’s
no
victory
anymore.
i watched
her
dance the
fado
and drink
the sad wine.
but people
can’t just
let go
and
that was something
we were
worse at.
we fixed our
hearts
but they
broke
just as
easy,
left in poems
and pictures
for our
children
to think
we lived happy
lives.
i
still drink
the sad
wine
and if i try
i don’t
think of
her sometimes