tuckova

What it's like is that sometimes I don't think I can say anything
directly, that I feel like all conversations have to make a stop at
metaphor and line before we can get to where we're going. We get in the car with a dream I had. You start
the trip when you say it's your fault, and it's not, but when I say
it's not you start crying and you say "I wish you never brought it up"
which I never meant to make you cry but if I could take one thing from
you this burden would be first: I have to bring it up so I can lift it
away from you.

I am not accustomed to handing other people
tissues. What I mainly do is take charge and fix stuff and later on I
cry alone. I mean that's why I have tissues in the first place: for me.
I am not supposed to hand them to you and definitely I did not mean to
make you cry and anyway why are you crying when I tell you it's not
your fault, because this is not a sad thing but a statement of fact
like how the beer garden is going to close soon is a fact. I
mean it's just a thing.

It is hard to have nothing to
invoke. For the love of poetry, I try. Oh, for Prufrock. Please don't
cry. Please let me take this sadness from you and please for both of us
let's throw it away far, down the field, far out. Let's throw it past
the boy counting dandelions in the outfield, past anybody in the
stands; let's make it something that nobody finds because nobody wants
it. Let's steal home. It's not your fault. It's full of damage but we
can't trace fault lines. Instead let's look towards construction that
can weather the whether. Let's get past sports and geology and blame.
Let's stop crying. We're running out of tissue.