Anchor and Braille
I've been slapped out of the atmosphere
She doesn't think I belong
Space is silk, you know
When you're weightless
It only took me thirty years
(and you know, I still don't understand)
But
The distant shots all connect
And I disintegrate
I don't know if you've all been following, but I keep writing poems of free-association and zero drafts while I listen to each song, and I'm completely unapologetic about it.
Lyrics
There's something I'm missing in the lyrics. I'm sure there has to be; it's tantalizing. Somewhere under the surface, there's a terrible story that would wrack me to the bones just to hear it. The reverberations would shatter me like a wineglass, the song screaming at my resonant frequency.
Is . . .
Is this my story?
I won't allow it, and I think that's sort of the point. I've been alone too long, sure. I'm unable to answer why it happened, sure. I can't think of anything I did that was worthy of what happened, sure. But [an angry voice inside me wants to yell about how it couldn't have been my fault, couldn't have been anything I did, obviously. I don't think I deserved what happened, either, and even if I knew why it happened, why she left, I couldn't expect that I caused it by anything I did] the song is, probably, my story.
Oh, cuss. I hope she never reads my blog. That hadn't occurred to me until now. Not--now, listen here, friend, there's nothing here that would probably surprise her much, and honestly she'll never tell me if she does, so it couldn't possibly matter to me whether she reads my work or not, but I sure hope somehow that it never occurs to her to google my name, even. Does that make sense, because it did when I typed it. So, and follow me here, I just kept writing and writing because my life didn't stop when she left (although I suppose it did, actually, thinking back on it only recently) and she doesn't matter now, and I never gave a second thought to whether she would read something that would sting (or cut [or eviscerate, though I don't suppose I ever had that much power over her (she was always so free of me, and maybe that's sort of the point) so probably in the end it doesn't matter]).
I looked at her instagram feed, for a time. It was the only thing she didn't delete, and then she deleted it. And then there was nothing, as though a ghost had been by and warmed a seat for you in an empty room. I didn't, uh, delete or change anything. Actually--holy moses
friends
oh my word
I literally just didn't do anything when she left
I was still married on Facebook because I forgot that was a thing
this song is about me
[14 January 2018 Robby died of embarrassment]
Stephen
When Stephen released this top 40, this song was new-old. Maybe he didn't have anything to say, and maybe he picked this song accidentally for me, and not for him. Stephen, you didn't write anything. You've left me alone with this song, and I think that's unintentionally cruel. A friend caught me twice, recently--once, I said "wife" instead of "ex-wife" because honestly I don't talk about her, so my brain has never re-wired, and and and once, they saw my ring on my keys where I put it last May, on the last day I ever wore it, and I was ashamed because.
Everything has been in stasis, waiting for me to notice and do something. Well, world. Stop holding your breath. I did something.
This song should apologize to me, or I to it, or something.
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