You know

I hadn’t actually sat down to write this

I had actually sat down to make an inventory list

of all the things you said I owe you

things that you tell me help me know you

because you say now with some resignation and the feeling

of wanting to slip off unwanted skin,

or maybe break open the cocoon you think i put you in

‘ lets get this shit out in the open,

lets finally measure this long,real long distance between what we were hoping,

and what this thing turned out to be, because frankly, I can no longer see

the difference,

between me and we ‘.

so, anyway,

I started putting things down in my list, maybe I wanted this to be a gist, or a map, if you will,

of the places we went to together, inside my head, out in the city

and sometimes on your bed. we lost stuff over there,

stuff that at that point we didn’t really care much for about

but now suddenly, without so much as a whisper of a doubt

this has become the cornerstone of our years together, in your mind,

of the days and nights you would rather leave


so, anyway,here are the items in no particular order, just sequential randomised

bits and fragments of memory I picked up from the border of dream

and waking up. some of these things I might even be making up, but then

you know me. remembering things was never my specialty.

that was always your thing, that obsessive compulsive remembering

of  ‘dates’, ‘events’,’sins forgiven’,’transgressions committed’

blunt instruments of memory whittled and coaxed down to a single sharp unforgiving point

to be used when necessitated by my infinite ability to forget

and not really hold a regret about forgetting, because for me this was all,(you said),

something fleeting, like sand blowing off your car windshield

or like limbs blown off in a minefield

like angels having their names struck off, and their wings torn off for having committed

the unspeakable crime of having forgotten to take the lords’ name.


but, really there is nothing and no one here to blame.

I forget, you remember.

that was the pattern. the logic to what we had.

regularity. like brown leaves in autumn, and sorry-looking off-white snow

in December.

the imaginary geographies we make up in our mind

the islands and the continents and the oceans we leave behind are somehow blurrier now

the brown leaves of autumn and their brown veins

like river streams skeletal with the waiting for rains draped over with the

off-white snow of forgetting.

I never really learnt the art of letting go, and it seems you learnt it too well

because as far as I can tell

I can see you sitting now, hunched over your bedside table

your legs in a knot, your body teetering close to the edge of the bed

but somehow stable, a pen in your hand,listing up the inventory

of what (you say) I took from you,

what you want back, and what you think i could keep

because you don’t care.


Things like old clothes, pictures, clumps of hair, wild doodles on ruled pages

The things you might have broken when you went into one of your rages and said you’d never see me again

and you hoped I would die, well, now I wouldn’t lie

this doesn’t feel very life-like….trying to assemble a list of your smells

and of your tells when you would lie to me, the slight edging away to the left

and the hand to the right of your forehead trying really really hard to scratch

an imaginary scar, and that look in your eyes that said

you were somewhere far,

far away while I rambled on (like I am rambling on now)

about things like….

wait…about things like making up lists of stuff that we took

from each other, just to keep the book clear

For that imaginary day when you’d no longer be there….


I see you do remember things well


so now that you can tell, that i haven’t gotten around to making that list

and probably won’t , by the looks of it.

maybe you could just send me whatever I think you are working on now and I will make sure that


I return every little itty-bitty piece of your life that i hold

inside my home, or somewhere in my head, or somewhere deeper down inside

Along with what’s left of my pride

I will let go of whatever you think helps me know you

we will be strangers, you and I,  and if we ever catch each other’s eye

on the road somewhere, maybe you could put on that faraway stare ,

while I walk by, pretending I returned everything I owe you.


















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