the blueshift journal

1.

 

This, then - our private language:

 

Reservoirs.

 

(fireworks, summer clichés, platitudes.)

 

--

 

(Or there was no such thing. On the bottom of the photo, it is inscribed “There are never enough

words.” The sentimentality of it.)

 

2.

 

The memoirs are ludicrous. Volumes written in that shaky young script.

 

We knew each story,

each excuse.

 

3.

 

You say “Yes, let’s talk.

But first, there must be rules.”

 

Still, you understand how much

language can break down

if not policed,

 

if we do not carefully watch

every word that we pass

between us.

 

4.

 

And you say we’ll exchange memories,

see these moments from the other side /of the equation.

(Somewhere, surely, there must be moments of genius within the shared context. Somewhere, moments of beauty.)

 

And so you tell me

the story of July, the fingers

of guilt

that we pushed into one

another.

 

I tell you of the breaking of waves

against your waist.

 

 

5.

 

You say nothing about the only night

we slept together,

poured /into one sleeping bag

over the cold sand.

 

I say this is important. /We were just kids,

you say.

 

 

6.

The stories accomplish nothing, really.

 

I scroll both

in columns through my head,

reinvent your dialogue,

 

whisper your new lines

to myself

through the dark.