It was chock-full of attempts: at waltzing, at yoga, at wrestling.
It was Jarlsberg, lemon tea, fried eggs with Sriracha sauce, breadbutterbreadbutterbread, sweet whiskey, heaping mélanges of vegetables that you brought in plastic bags,
upon garlic upon
It was reggae, Van Morrison, The Band, Talking Heads, woodsy blues, anxiousness.
It was sloppy kisses, blindly torn clothes
It was THE neck rub. Lots of yanking. Giggly exasperation.
You hung me upside down and threw me into a snowdrift
It was bitter cold walks, bitter cold sleeps followed by ruined bed-makings
The curtains are too thin.
I tried to read you poems but you didn't understand.
It was old movies, childhood talks, boredom,"whatshouldwedowhatdoyouwanttoDOiwanttodosomething",
We had our own little book club.
Empty conversations, lively conversations, no conversation.
Hurried wake-up calls.
It was too many nights spent back-to-back, turned to weeks without contact.
Inebriated mumblings of
" l o v e "
promptly dismissed as soon as they were uttered.
You only said lovely things when you were drunk.
It was your ego and the fascination that came with it.
It was "My glasses! Where are my glasses? Captain!"
Scoffing, eye rolling.
It was always
Not. Quite. There.
It was recollections of nightmares, of future plans, of Wikipedia look-ups
Restless sleep talking, broken down cars, towed cars, Indian food, mango lassi
Feelings of inadequacy. Discomfort, comfort.
Distance and closeness.
I would summon the strength
back to sleep.
The whole thing was a binary.
But was it love?
Pas du tout.