Above Conscience, Below Conscious

You went to the back room with your black journal
to be by yourself. I put our song on repeat
and waited to hear your voice.

Being apart is harrowing, like having kids, takes
scaly skin like a Gila monster. The people who
do figure it out keep to themselves I think.

I was like a stone board at the sink, less man than
scullery maid, when you hugged me and said, "My poor
sugarwater, I'm worried about you."

Your hair was unwreckable above a white kabuki mask,
eyebrows bleached death maroon, lips black purple.
We embraced like moths, boldly and quiet.

I said, "Look Chrissie, I've been doing it this way
my whole entire goddamn life and it's been working
for me all this time." Except it hasn't, so

you started loosely on loose leaf, "Look Nathan,
nobody cares about us but you and me. Nobody
thinks about us. I am alone in this world..." And

it was all of it true, still feels weird seeing my face
so lizardlike and nerdy, yet loving myself now like
you loved me then. All the time and nothing more.

Straight teeth, lip curled up at an angle almost
like a cat, I said, "Those aren't bad terms. I'm not
uninterested, and I am NOT uninspired."

Later I watched you dig through the bottom cupboards
in black star panties and blue striped tank top.
I said you were in trouble. Catty meowing outside.


2011