I am lying face-up thinking about optical illusions.
If I place a hand over my left eye I will see
mostly the same things I always see. Light goes out
of a room very slowly in the evenings, it leaves like a guest
who knows you don‘t want him to leave, he seems to be there
until you realise he‘s gone, and it makes you feel sad. This afternoon
I was excited by a lot of things: your tie, your shirt, how everything
you say when you‘re wearing them makes you sound
like such a jerk, also your absence. When we
were fighting today I still liked you, but that was hours ago.
I will write in my diary about today, which is the day
I stopped loving you forever. When I yelled at you to get out
and you got out, it was okay then, but when I stopped being angry
I was bored. I don‘t want ever to receive a text message about
floor-to-ceiling curtains again in my life, don‘t you
know me at all? I didn‘t take you to the river
to teach you how to swim, I wanted to look
at the water. I liked certain novelties so much I guess I forgot
you had a pair of cufflinks with your school crest on them,
and I know what that makes me. While you are hearing the most
amazing live instrumental performance you have ever heard
I am reading your text messages with one eye closed.
And I thought I had you once. Water comes between things
to create an illusion of distance, but maybe that‘s not what I meant.