4:26 a.m.

4:26 a.m. I am mired here: the same wanting,
wanting happiness at no one’s expense.

Impossible.

9:32 p.m.:
What is a heartbreaker?
S wanted to know,
days ago.

I said it was a word that people
used when they were being lazy, when they
refused to step outside of themselves, when
they stopped asking why might he and why
might she. That love is love and hearts are
bound to break.

Did anybody ever call you a heartbreaker?
she asked.

Probably, it has probably happened.
Blame is easy, I told her. It takes courage to
trace steps that lead to oneself and not away.
I never give my love without wanting to be the best
person I can be. It’s a tricky balance, looking out
for yourself and someone else at the same time.

She nodded.

Love can hurt, even when everyone plays
fair enough. She can see that in her
mother’s eyes.

4:26 a.m. Conversations, hours upon hours,
of what should have been said before, to
others, to ourselves. Yes.

You, hey, you there,
4:26 a.m. you,
you are more
evolved than I.

You say you are not cocky,
but I have made a life and
saved a life by reading faces
the way some people read
palms. I know me some
cocky, sometimes:
the hard uptilt of a jaw,
the slippery slope of intellect,
curling at the corner of a full,
set mouth.

You are patient. I am impatient
with your patience, because I
cannot say what I mean, not
yet, not like this.

We muddle, we grope for the
right words, gather them damply
from the miles and miles of paths
that have led us to This Here, we
offer them up in upturned palms,
pick through our abominations,
the necessary foolishnesses that
have led us to this.

4:26 a.m. You are not here but
you are. You linger as if you spent
the day here, in this bed, though
of course you did not. I could not
find the words tonight, only the
tears. The child me, she was too close
to the surface tonight, pricked her
finger on the edge of your worry,
the worry over my worry.

4:26 a.m., and all I can do
is send you something that
fits, something I hope will
keep you warm, someday.