It is nighttime then it is daytime and then its nighttime again and we are under the big orange tree balancing ourselves against each other and it is light enough for the street light to not come on but dark enough that when I look down I cannot see the distance of ourselves between each other under this large orange tree that should have dropped leaves so long ago. We are in these hills together, you and I, and we are in these hills because, you and I, must say goodbye, even though what does this even mean, we see in movies and TV, it's not goodbye but so long, see you later, see you soon. You send me a text that says my love I love! but it is not this orange tree that dies eventually, or these hills that will pass, too, no. These hills will be here forever, I say to you without prompting, the first thing I say. When we take trips we look up the mountainside to see lumps of houses that skew our view, most cities have skyline orders, you tell me, these ugly houses cannot break this mountain skyline so that when you look up for a view you don't just see money in the form of walls, rooms. My love I love! not this light and dark moment on Conlon Street, where everything is a photograph, half-developed.
It is daytime and then it is nighttime, and then it is daytime again. I am reenacting a dance move in front of the mirror, my body awkwardly working this way and that, my body awkwardly moving.
Remember when we danced in my living room, your head nodding back and forth to an awkward rhythm from a stereo I left behind when I left that summer. As of today, at that time that year, we only had a few more weeks left, and you were in love with another, so soon so soon. When the tables turn. Who do we call to fix the loose screw, the loose nail.
My love, I love! but not me, as we are distance in the form of the blackest hole, this vortex of suck, in and out and in and out. If we could pry open my ribcage, among the others, is a heart the shape of a baby's two fists shoved deep in their mouth, up and over the dimples of knuckles, as if fisting itself, fisting itself. If we could pry open my ribcage, an organ the shape of a state in America, a city just as big, these rolling mountains of scraggle, this unending doom of West. If we could pry open my ribcage, you could see the promise of gold if you just dig, the arrangement of settlers that if you till the land and make something fruitful, you can keep the land. But it's not so easy when the conditions are sour. It's not so easy, this dream, this dream.
What if I gave up completely? It is daytime and nighttime, so much a blur already.
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