I think to myself in certain terms.
No, honey. No, gray eyes. No, doll.
Is it the wind in my mane? The point of the beard? The knot in my chest?
The decisions—not resolutions—are as simple as live, fuck it all, live. It’s seven in the morning when I wake up and think I want sex, when, about a year and a half ago, I gave less than a damn. Once you start back up, I tell you. It’s like riding a bike. You don’t forget and you remember how goddamn great it is. Otherwise, in the absence, I read like mad. I read books, I read tumblr posts, I read news articles. Give me, give me.
It’s the shaking, mostly. The soft tremble. That’s usually when I paused to look in her eyes. I wouldn’t make her cry—I’m really trying—but I would make her come, and her face is. Is. Is…
I’d hold her chin, if I needed it. She has a crooked lower tooth that points to her canine.
I see these kids walking around with their pants sagging halfway down their ass. I see myself ten, fifteen years ago. Quiet, saggy bastard. I want to tell them to wise the fuck up. No one tells these kids these things because they hear but don’t listen. I’m old anyway, why listen to me? But, damn. The things I could’ve done. The life I could’ve lived—
Stop there, if I’m smart.
My heart’s as fragile as ever. Certain music really kicks my ass. Certain joy.
Stop here. The cucumber and farm cheese sandwiches make lunch. I’m sitting on a bench and it’s raining just for me.