i can talk to you with my eyes,
barely even nodding.
no one needs to invent my motives.
“i cheapen our relationship to the point where it’s this.”
you just spoke for me.
i had a life before, even if you didn’t know it. now you know it for sure, but it’s a fake life, i’m pretending, this is a happy mask, the only kind of lie i can tell, because it’s my childhood culture, fake-happy lies. you were my closest friend. you wanted me. i thought you wanted me, because i wanted myself. no one wants anyone anymore. only i have time to be pretty. it’s fake prettiness.
across the table i noticed you had written, as i spoke, my name and address, Annie S. Eddy, Williams College, Williamstown, MA. I poured pepper onto it.
(the ocean looks shallow from here.)
traded rilke for cigarettes, holes in my rainboots, lectured, clicked my heels.
fell asleep not alone enough, no sound of rain, burned churches, and thought about dolphins and harpoons and why,
you thought about her, about rainer, about rain, dreamed in german, not about the shark, not about me.
it’s this. it’s this.
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