They had made love once –
after they had met on a different island
which was, in a way, making love for a week.
Ten years older now and sitting across
each other in a restaurant in the district
where one of them works an 8 to 5 job
making up reasons why people should buy
and buy; she’s tired of the notion
that all things have a price. He is thinking
of what he had given up for her.
It is constantly surprising to the both of them
how their memories of their time spent together
differ so radically, so much that when they talk
instead about the point in which their consciousnesses
divided and went separate ways, it is a relief.
“Tell me more about your wife,” is easy to say.
There are grapes in the salad, arugula, and
crumbly goat cheese. Walnuts. He likes hearing her
talk, and she obliges him. The grapes are very red,
their translucent pulp half-wrapped in skin.
Around them the restaurant ruptures and again
they are standing by the sea, hand in hand,
looking down to where the water repeats itself,
seemingly endlessly. She was telling him: I’ll see you
again, won’t I? It will be the same, except in the city.
“We forgot to account for time,” he replies, and she
looks at him with surprise. The grapes are very red,
and the arugula which was cultivated in Veneto
is bitter the way it should be, especially when grown
in dry, disturbed ground. He recovers himself, and
offers her more wine, ready for the necessary
misunderstanding that comes with having found
each other in a different place, outside of time.

Tagged , , ,

4 thoughts on “TWBTBMBTSWBSL:

  1. Ain says:

    Hey Petra… oh my god, I LOVE THIS. I don’t know why.

  2. jacob says:

    this really feels like a dumaguete poem to me. for some reason. and also i really love this.

    • softfloors says:

      Funny you should say that, J! I have to know, though: is a Dumaguete poem a poem written about Dumaguete, in Dumaguete, or a poem Dumaguete would approve of? Haha!

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