The house, which smells of cigarettes, either those that are seeping in or those that are seeping out. And I smooth out the empty sheets beside me. The gentle sand dune of the un-sleeper’s side. There is Finnish pop playing on the stereo, there are trucks reversing in the street, there is fog evaporating slowly.
We feint and parry, on nights when there are many and others when there are few. I look at you, and try to muster up the looks of love – but who can fake the look of love? I can arrange my face for ecstasy or hate but I can’t fake the look of love. The look of love, squash-able as a new bloom flower, is crushed under a hurried boot, is wilted by the morning sun, dessicated by the afternoon wind.
I like to think that there is nothing wasted, that we have been most Amish in our love, rejecting all the wretched machinery, wearing plain clothes and leading a simple life. But really, it was very complicated and we were already trapped by all our trappings, we had always been slaves to the wheel, and potentially everyone was going to get terribly hurt.