She said
that you were drunk,
jumped off the wagon when a
wheel came loose.
It was raining.
Late afternoon.
You said,
Could I come live with you?
My mom is throwing me out.
She said,
she would never do that.
I arrived in 15 minutes,
or maybe 10.
You said
to leave,
and I could not.
I said,
Where did you go,
and how did you get back?
She said
your story was dynamic.
This is what I gathered:
It was after work.
Dissociated.
You got home safely.
You were crying.
A fleece blanket-sized tissue was over you.
Your room was too dark to see.
You said
to leave.
It wouldn’t be easier.
And I could not.
I said,
I love you.
You said
you didn’t,
that you were a horrible person,
couldn’t love,
couldn’t be.
You said
this more than I remember.
She said
you needed me right now.
I said,
Darling,
I won’t stop,
so this isn’t over.
I said,
keep trying,
and so will I.
You said
thank you
and kissed me.
The thanks was unneeded.
I wasn’t a hero.
You said,
Can you take me to work tomorrow?
I said,
Do you still have a job?
You were trying not to vomit.
Overcast the next day.
You left early.
I said,
I don’t know if I could deal with this again,
and I have not.
