Maria Domenech and

./VUUlfcA. !Uor*L

last night's dinner, with your half-eyes tearing, silently, and your words spilling over clearly onto my plate., and me, wanting to be anywhere but there, with you. or with your eyes softening and searching, and dimming, the whole time I wonder, as my eyes skim over you: i thought tears would be louder than this, and I sit back, as you lean forward, shifting in that half-dinner dance, turning and dodging to the words and the music...

so i tell you: i slide back to that time, early yesterday/last year, where i am you, asking for the same that i of now won't give (the me i never want to revisit), her, me, (who, would've been you, behind the slammed door so often), was here again, offering up her hands, asking and trying everything, not to ask what you were asking then, and old strings don't fade completely, you know that still, i respond to you so well, but the me of today, embarrassed and awkward, will not meet you straight-faced, and level, with an open heart, with an open mind, or an outstretched hand.

so i seemed right at the time-and i'm sorry now-that my excuses could make up for this learned aversion to vulnerability -that my sudden headache could excuse me from the pain that surrounds you. and before i could stop them, (my muscles turned sore)—the words dribbled out cold: that i didn't know i hurt you; that i didn't mean to see the tears i don't see: that i didn't mean to slowly leave you there soaking in that puddle around you... words leave me purging— you the priest and i the sinner—while the gnawing grows. the understanding that i've placed my heart back in my pocket just in time for this. and that hated insincerity so much envelops me, while i, inturn, lean forward to hold you.

-15-