so the truth is that last week i left a note and a small ceramic cat underneath some periwinkle flowers outside your house. i thought it best to get as close to the roots as possible, so you'd be sure. i lied to everyone. i wrote the note in light blue ink, in capital letters. the tiny flowers were all hugging.
"i dreamt about you last night. we were naked but i can't recall, really, if we touched or if we fucked. you called me tangerine."
i left fast. hello roots, touch-and-go, my heart was beating rabbit-fast.
and now i just can't seem to write with my hands at all, they're heavy and slow.
we can't sing.
i'm not blaming you. i blame the the hands. we know too much. the stories and this atmosphere and the roots and the old poems have been subdued. i have been uninvited from a place i used to curl up of and inside and it wasn't cordial. i am telling you because you know. things move especially slow or especially fast and the story is already exhausted. it's cheap and used. it's men in bars forgetting to close the door behind them while they take a piss. it's bankrupt. even autumn is hiding. the leaves don't want to die this time, i swear, they told me and even though they begged it was all done so quietly. the tiny whimpers of leaves saying "please" and a gloomy grabbing for a season dedicated to death that somehow smells just like being very, very alive. but look what could i do? there was nothing. the air was impatient and relentless and i just stood there with the ceramic cat trying to come up with reasons not to cry.
everything was impatient, the air was fucked up, air with an amphetamine buzz. no one ever wants to be the one to decide. i was never good at being the one who decides.
regardless, it was time, and i thought we should aim for graceful. we should at least try and shoot for graceful. hey, i can do this, i said, to no one, to the ceramic cat. i promise, whatever you want, i can figure it all out. you will never grow old. it will all stay wet and cinnamon and comely and 'tangerine'. you will never not feel clean.
the things all said: prepare for newness, sweetheart. this is a change so big even the stars are watching. video cameras are propped absurdly in the giant sky, a red recording light blinking like a planet, waiting. in the end i know we have to pretend the leaves will be okay, just lets pretend we are large mountains made of bravery and for god sakes let's not ever, ever bore them. yes, bravery. and even if it's not enough, i'll keep trying. you. it's only a dance, it's only a season. just a harmless rooted letter, no spells and no deception. the ceramic cat, resting on the roots? its for good luck and it's very wonderful to hold in your hands tightly. it is soft and hard at the same time, just like love. and okay i should say, i should tell you, i lied. we did, we fucked, in my dream. but it wasn't for me to write there, with the very sad leaves watching me and the tiny cat and her car in your driveway. no, it was best like this.