you were sick somewhere, and i was worried. i’d gotten up in the middle of the night. i don’t remember where i was, only that the hotel room curtain was green, that i didn’t feel clean, that i needed to shower in the middle of the night. but you never answered your phone.
i could feel you sleeping across the cities, and remember the dark, easy night of your hair, the shape of your sprawl across our shared sheets — the wind in the trees, the way the guava tree gently dropped its fruit on the roof — i remember how at night i stayed up, a guardian of our little world
you talked in your sleep. you didn’t say anyone else’s name, you didn’t say a single thing that had any meaning.
once we went to 12,000 children’s birthday parties. i got tired and bought the same gift for everybody. the parties all felt the same, and there was always cake, and frosting, but there weren’t always balloons. I was annoyed because you never chipped in or bothered to buy a gift, and most of the children belonged in one way or another, to you.
i hold a grudge against you. i nurse it. keep it tucked next to me like a pet snake.
i got tired, and you still lie to people about why.
around this time, one year, we had our final fight.
i do not regret that fight. it was the best fight i could have ever had.