We crossed the Rubicon in November. But by then everyone had spoiled the novelty of separation, so we rolled our eyes and waded back to a home that had been obviously vandalized. They say that one person can make a difference which is laughable whenever you've ever tried to get the person closest to you in all the world to listen for five goddamn minutes.
"Can I just say something?"
"God, what is it now."
"I'm tired of the negativity and the defensiveness. I'm tired of this."
That is usually when she bites you hard on the earlobe because that is the place where all your senses are stowed. "Wait. Are we fighting?" We are not fighting. We are rolling among waves of man-made fabrics and mass produced pastiches.
That is the place where the motion sickness is greatest, the crow's nest, the point furthest most from the center of gravity. It is why a decapitee is referred to as losing his head instead of losing his body, because you are your center and not your extremities.
For the last time, I am so sorry and I mean it, because what a lovely day that was to pluck me from an ocean of cares and concerns. How nice it is to lie back on your back and not feel like it is because you've been forced there. Oh gods, how lovely it would have been to pull a soft pack of cigarettes from the drawer and draw in a deep zippo flavored first breath to set the room a spinning spindle spindly sagittarius.
It is a scant 4,000 miles from the local beach to the south pacific and a joy to remember when the bed was the boat and the carpet a shark infested deep.