mardi gras

MacAvity's picture

I don't have time on Tuesday, but I'll do it anyway
I'll visit, and take one long look at you
and take in your face
and indulge in sin just for a moment
before giving you up.

I'll be back.
You need me to come back, so I'll come back.
I'll come back well in time for us and Rubisco and life.
And maybe by then I'll have found myself a life.

Because I need a life that isn't you
Because you have a life that isn't me

"Isn't that against your religion?"
"Yeah, well, you know that thing, that we do,
That's against my religion too.
Cafeteria Catholic."

You've got him and you don't need me now
And he's perfect. So good to you - and to me.
And I never wish him gone.
"Why are there two of us?" I ask - can't see room for both
but it's always myself I imagine away.

And I can't base my life around sleeping on your couch.

Things I'm good at:
- sleeping in my clothes
- drawing the anatomy of a four-chambered heart, from memory
- tailoring things I find at thrift stores
- procrastinating
- smiling

"It's a fabulous day! Today's a good day! It's such a good day!"
"You keep saying that. I know you mean it,
but it's going to start to sound like you're telling yourself that."

No possible way we're going to fit in a masquerade before Wednesday.
And it's starting to seem unlikely that we'll get to visit the butterflies before they fly north again.
Invite me if you do, though, please.

And even when I parachute down out of a helicopter
into the Land of the Frustrated Engineers
I still can't get one.
And now I seriously have to wonder what's wrong with me.
'Cause I wasn't just sitting and waiting this time
and it's not that I'm too much of a boy
or not enough of a man - not this time.
"You are just too awesome for all of them!"
But that's not true - can't be
because if there's one thing I've learned from certain sage advice
it's that "The constant in this equation is you."
I can't see what my problem is, but it's mine
and I can't keep blaming the rest of the world
or let you blame it to spare my feelings.

"It's fucked up, and it's fucked up, and sometimes it's so fucked up
that you end up fucking yourself."
"Yeah, well, I've done plenty of that..."
Add that to my list of skills. But the motivation has been lacking, of late.

I kicked myself
and thought that that had worked
but now at best I'm a satellite with nothing to orbit
and other times I feel the gravity pulling me in.
I can't look at you when you're asleep
because then the friend is gone and the crazy is gone and the fun is gone
and there's nothing to distract from what I'm not allowed to feel.

I remember one morning
- before I kicked myself -
when you were asleep
and so close that the hairs by your ears moved when I breathed
and I was overflowing with love
And it was the best feeling in all creation -
even though there was already trouble and there was already him -
and I can't do that anymore
Can't let myself feel that
And I miss the feeling.

Tuesday. Just for a moment.

And I'll hug you and tell you I love you -
no different than ever, except in my chest -
and I won't visit again next weekend,
or the weekend after that.
Won't keep imposing myself on your life.
Won't keep orbiting.

And without you and without the grand distractions of the webs
I'll have to find something else or someone else
because - somehow - I don't cease to exist when I'm not with you.
Have to keep on being, somewhere else.
Regi has appointed herself as my wingman.
Not sure where we'll go or what we'll do
and pretty sure we'll fail and have fun
and not sure how seriously we're taking it
since we're going to have her wear the Wingman Hat - it has wings!

And I won't go crawling around a rock on my hands and knees by moonlight
- don't care that that's how they did it in the Stone Age, I'm not stooping that low -
but if I see some lonely cavegirl doing it I'll talk to her, okay?
Pachacuti said no. At least he did answer - I thought he was ignoring me.
And I don't care that we've been obsessed for like a year -
it's a distraction; it's not life.

William Stark didn't control his variables. He gave up everything at once and he died, of scurvy, without coming to any useful conclusions whatsoever.
So change one thing at a time. Sugar didn't work, try lactose.
"Would you rather give up pasta, or lick a streak plate?"

I promise I will come back. For you, for Rubisco, for myself.
But I hope I can find a life in the meantime,
or at least learn to live without gravity.

Gravity. Heh. Rhymes with gravity.
Maybe it's just ironic. Rhymes with suavity and depravity too. Means nothing.

Thursday's going to be rough. No distractions. I'll survive though.

I'll come back. I'm just disappearing for a while.
Because I need a life that isn't you
because you have a life that isn't me.