Art Gephyr

I Don't Remember

I don't remember
how it happened or
how I knew,
but I do remember
Being
in the middle of it,
where he suddenly put me.
And just as I felt
him starting to break away,
I pulled him back.
My hands on the corner
of his jaw and neck.
I don't remember
where they were before then.
Nor after.
Nor his
at any point in time.
But I do remember.
Being.

"Is it OK, that I go?"
But that can't be what he meant.
"Of course, you are free."
Was that what I meant?
Such misphrased desire.
Such orthogonal lives
to not be able to construct
a common understanding between us.
Me, older, saw his lie,
"I wanted to kiss you all night ..."
and his truth
"... But you're so damn distant!"
And I wondered which
would be the mistake --
wanting more
or accepting the present?

In wanting more
I found myself alone
amongst a crowd of dancers
entwined, close and wild,
absorbed under flashing lights.
In the shadows
I walked around them.
Between them.
Through them.
Down to the dance floor,
up to the bar,
circling.
Invisible and uncertain.
Waiting to happen.

Yanked out by a friend.
Back amongst the familiar,
amongst the sterile walls of an apartment,
amongst those content with the present.
I heard wet slop and slaps
echoing behind a bedroom door.
And I, alone,
in the current black
laid on a white sofa,
pleather rudely sticking to my skin,
and thought,
... Oh god, is this really all there is?