Why do I write? It is all I have. He stonewalls, I falter, doubled over in disbelief, sharp grief like you wouldn't believe, acute, like an anvil in the sternum but worse somehow and angry in equal measure, understanding is my only medicine and he will not fill it. He shuts the door. He leaves questions, legitimate fucking questions, heavy hanging in the air, like smoke, like a pall, like something Poe would write, and much better than I, because his mind was clearer, but not less morbid. How long can we agree to just let crazy dissipate? And does it really ever? Or does it just settle, like dust, spiders under a rug, swept with a willow cob broom. He thinks so little of me. And then I think so little of myself. And at what point do we intervene? Do we say, you know, this is really getting out of hand, this is damaging and a waste of energy, let's be civilized, figure this out, because we are two people clearly made for each other, imminently compatible in every conceivable way, this is just silly, immature fears, come on, let's be grown-ups? How many quicks do we have to bite down to? Even our crazies complement, I just fear to our detriment. But he don't fear, I don't think, can't tell if he cares even, that he fucks me up so, that I only respect myself only to the degree that I am honest and just and kind, and that when he, he of all people, can't see it, doesn't love it, won't value it or trust it ... what then? Then I am looking at the world downside up, can't hear anything from anyone, like being under water or hearing a soothing female radio voice from speakers filtered through a screened door, that all becomes trivial. That I can't do even the simplest things, because the only thing is in jeopardy. You suck, man, because I love you and only you. Fuck you for not seeing it and fuck me for not holding your eyes open. Still, though. We are quite the couple.

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