string

A thread that unites and at the same time separates two people. That what is called love, or lust or routine? Sometimes the name of that thread is ignorance. Sometimes it is called blindness, whether voluntary or inadvertent. Of course, blindness is another name for ignorance, but it doesn’t matter. I think of this thread in the shower, Sunday finally crawling down my back. This last thread was tricky. The only sure thing is that it was short. We knew it, but not always. We played pretend and talked about a transatlantic thread. Of course it was not long enough. Of course it was not strong enough. And then it’s not only water that slides down my belly before dying deep in the gutter. I find myself crying over a metaphorical piece of string. As if my life pended of this last strand of what? Not of hope, silly, pick up the soap. You are more jaded than that. You know better. You are not sad really over this time’s broken string, are you? No, it’s not about this time. This time it was pretend string. You say no strings attached but still, you like to pretend. You say honey and baby and plan trips to New Zealand and introduce your parents and friends. You cook dinner and he brings wine and you adopt pet fish. You shop for the newborn niece whom you will never meet, because of course, this is a no-strings thing. You look through the tears and find a pair of sudsy feet. These are yours. Your body which will only mean so much to you and you wonder. Will there ever be a piece of real string? It’s all bullshit, you know? Another piece of cheap psychology, pop wisdom, Bradshaw blabber. There’s only you.