Photoshop® (the shortest novel imaginable)

Photoshop® (the shortest novel imaginable)

I die fast in this city, outside I die slow
Everywhere I am is just another thing without you in it
“Fashion Coat,” The National

Prologue

i tried to Photoshop® myself

back into the picture

from which you cut me

the process was tedious and slow

because i work from dream and memory

haunting me like welcomed ghosts

Chapter 1

i have been hit twice by cars while cycling

and i cannot remember anything about them

Chapter 2

i remember every moment

from the first time we made love

every detail of your apartment

the position of your bed in the room

the Salvador Dali rose poster i gave you

hanging on your wall near the door

the flush along your neck and face

and every word shared between us

Chapter 3

i remember The National concert in Asheville

and that you were not there beside me swaying

Chapter 4

i remember reading At Night We Walk in Circles

wanting to highlight in blue this sentence:

“Nothing is more deserving of one’s respect,

he told Monica that night, as they lay in bed,

than two young people who’ve found each other.”

i remember i could find only an orange highlighter

and that i could not share about any of that with you

Epilogue

i have discovered that Photoshop®

cannot fabricate the things that matter

especially when the things that matter

are no longer possible and no longer there

she was risen

she was risen

she was risen

round full and glowing

full as a throat with song

risen like bread in an oven

and once again it is spring

risen from the ashes of winter

she was risen like the moon

round full and glowing in the sky

and like her we too were full

she with child and we with hope

the death of us (redux)

the death of us (redux)

“You are reporting what?”

the officer stood in their living room

“The death of us”

they said in unison like a chorus

“But you’re standing right here…”

the officer held out his hand for emphasis

“Not us the people, us, you know, us”

the wife said sweeping her hands over her head

•

there was nothing else they could do

so the forensics team inspected their home

“I think we have found the culprits”

a detective said tapping a notepad in his hand

“The empty toilet paper roll in the holder”

the detective kept tapping the notepad

“The passive-aggressive laundry”

the detective gestured to the folded clothes

“Happens all the time, I’d say, almost always”

the detective shook his head and looked away

i am the voice of reason (breathing you breathing me)

i am the voice of reason (breathing you breathing me)

I wore the clothes you wanted
I took your name
If there is some confusion, who's to blame?

“I Took Your Name,” R.E.M.

i am the voice of reason

only when i laugh

only when i cry

if you stop to read the words

you are lost little lamb

you are lost lost lost

we sacrifice childhood on the alter

of everything we say

in order not to see

tra-la-la-la

tra-la-la-la

lips wasted telling all those lies

are best for kissing

are best for kissing

shhh

shhh

come closer please closer still

so close there will be no need for words

breathing you breathing me

i still lie (he thought)

i still lie (he thought)

And in my hotel room, I'm wondering
If you read that story too?
And if we both might
Be having the same imaginary conversation

“Cologne,” Ben Folds

i still lie imagining

he thought when he woke

on a tuesday morning

unable to recall the difference between apparently and clementine

although he felt certain they were entirely separate things

and where ever words no longer connected with meanings

he could see and even feel as if recollections were experiences

his thumb sliding and pressing

into the curve of her palm

and then with his finger squeezing

the soft pad below her thumb

these conversations wordless as a man trapped in forgetting

that echo like memories projected into an endless cavern

•

how could a jet plane that large disappear?

[like the meanings of words]

he wanted to ask her

as they held hands quietly

but when he turned her way

she was already gone

and that meaning he knew

with the solidness of bone

•

it was golden and too thick to be water

but he thought he heard her whisper honey

in that wordless othersphere of memory

where meaningless meant meaningful

apparently and just ever so briefly

he was happy as a clementine

something i learned watching a young 20s couple at barnes and noble

something i learned watching a young 20s couple at barnes and noble

i am sitting at barnes and noble feeding off internet access and working. well, i am writing, or more accurately editing, and i am sure not many would call that working.

a young 20s couple sits close by, and i watch over the top of my computer screen as i write. she is nearly crawling on him drawn physically, and he seems almost oblivious leaning slightly away.

it is then i realize something i could not admit before: i have been this woman in every lover relationship i’ve had.

one was a perpetual begging for her to long for me; the other, i sent running anywhere except with me.

and what was my daughter to do with this woman for a father as she stumbled and flailed toward her own womanhood?

damn i think well damn as i continue to write resisting the urge to tell the young man won’t you please notice her, knowing as i do that if i did and if he did, the spell would snap, and freed she would leave him there, her seeking another aloof for her ache to be drawn physically once again.

[NOTE: Thanks to Peter Kay, for "this."]