Last night I dreamt that I chopped you up into a hundred little pieces, like a Benihana chef, and ate them, one by one. You tasted like chicken. Afterward, I felt full but slightly disappointed. I had been craving steak.
I plan to forget this dream. I will block out the grainy texture of you as moo shu. The itch of swallowing you dry. I will erase it completely, without lingering echoes or annoying deja vu, despite the possibility that my dream led me inexorably to this moment.
Because I already know that unlike the dream - this dead end- this one is going to stick.
I am living an inevitable memory...
Today I break up with you in a restuarant that has crayons on the table and peanut shells on the floor. A drunken woman in the midst of her bachelorette party, wearing little more than a cowboy hat and tassels, attempts to organize a line dance. I realize now that I should have waited for a better backdrop. It looks as if I think our relationship adds up to nothing more than a couple beers ( on my behalf) and some satisfying , but fiery, Buffalo wings. This is not the effect I was going for.
I had imagined the disentangling would be straight forward and civilized.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment