It was on the table, she had it written on a matchbox in cursive:

"I fucked someone that wasn't you. 
we were in the bath, our knees sticking out; islands in the soapy water. In the thick, heady steam I was told no one in the world kissed like me & that my eyes had earths spinning in them, making everyone dizzy. No one told me breathing steam was different than breathing air. I think it was the wet skin. I think I called out your name. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

I sipped my coffee. It tasted like shit.
She never wrote in cursive.

who knows.

the room had four plush, dark purple couches 
and a revolving door that kept moving without any people going through it.  you know the kind. 
we were seated across from each other, which is a rather vulnerable position if you don't like being looked at in the eyes for too long. 

things had taken place we didn't feel like putting the right words to yet. 
we were alone, the doors hummed like tiny airplanes in flight.
if you do not know what these sound like go under the water in a bath and hum with your lips.

he crossed his legs handsomely.
"you do this because you think you have to."
i hoped my voice belonged to me.
"i don't think anything."
"not you, just your brains."
there was a pause.
"my brains are a train track, we're leaving." he looked for a bellhop. 
"and where does it end?"
"you should tell me, probably." 
he chuckled, a small wave crashing, making fun of the people that swim.
"what do you write about?" he wouldn't take his eyes off of me.
"i don't write, i stand in the rain."
"maybe it sounds like the drops."
"i hope sometimes there's thunder."
we talked about thunder, we talked about old lovers.
i lied to him several times.
he lied back.
the door kept revolving, swinging mirrors & his eyes big like question marks.
i never saw him again.

what is happening.

i have been experiencing writers block for a month now and i am not pleased.
it smells like spring outside.
your kiss is good in spring. 
i marvel.

"personal is best. I know this professor,
we were drinking beer together and he
said, "I don't see how you can be so personal
in your writing, isn't it embarrassing?"

he's wrong, it's all personal.
history is personal. pulling a shade up
in the morning is personal. drinking beer is. the
abstract is. the objective is. the waterbug
is, and synapse is.

and nothing is more personal than walking down
a stairway alone
thinking about nothing. I often like to
think about nothing for hours.

this professor, he'd simply taught too long
while I'd been a night watchman and a
circus hand. there was really nothing I could
tell him but I tried: "drink your beer,"
I told him, "and tell me about your wife."

he would only drink his beer so
I told him about my wife." -Bukowski