There are things I want to say to you but cannot, because in the freshness of this rift, my sweetwords come out acidic, no matter my intent. This I want you to know: I have loved you. I love you.
I have decided that Meridian Avenue (the street we endlessly traversed, on foot) needs to be demolished. Or, eschewing that kind of violence, it might simply vanish. Also, the bus stop at 90th and Aurora has to go. Nevermind that it’s where I catch the bus, day in and day out. That little corner is just too painful to bear surviving.
Additonally, I would like to request the removal of all bicycles from Seattle city proper. Let us walk. There can be lingering and eye contact among the citizenry, and perhaps whistling. Let the absence of bikes on the streets echo the silence of my living room wall, bereft without the contact of your bicycle’s chattering gears. Let the silence descend.
Somehow strange objects have found their way into my bookwormed home and cause me no end of grief: protein drinks, nutritional supplements, free weights, fitness magazines. I am issuing a ban on all sports-related equipment and accoutrements.
I discovered your bottles of Pepsi in the refrigerator and wept into the coffee-colored pools they made in the kitchen sink. I still don’t drink soda.
I thank you for the stray bits of clothing: the chocolate polar fleece, the grape-striped thermal, the tomato vest (with embedded reflectors–again with the bicycles). I hope you won’t mind that they’ve become my Uniform, that I greedily snuffle my nose into these items when no one is looking (when I am not looking), in search of you and the sparks we threw. I crave the tang of your flesh but flee your ghostly traces in the streets we knew.
I am a woman riddled.