almost this

It was like this.
I was sleeping on the floor at the foot of a wheelchair, electric, and when my friend tilts his legs it bumps me just a little.  We're watching androids marching over humans who are too round to walk, their skeletons buried somewhere deep in their flesh, and the milky white countenance of the robot who was worthy of love, and her name was...
Daydream.  On the floor, it was like this.
We're at that booth in Tijuana, maybe in was Ensenada, I think it was TJ, that booth where they sell tea sets made of ceramic or clay and sell them in those woven bags, the kind you get in deeper parts of Mexico, except everywhere they have them now.  You wouldn't know that, necessarily.  You should know that.  I mean.  I would like it if you would know that, only because you knowing that would mean that I took you there, that we spent a significant amount of time there.
I know someone else could take you there.
It's not about that, I don't care if they do, really, if that's what happens then that's what happens, and it would be nice to be thinking, "no, I hope she goes because it would make her happy, it doesn't matter who she's with," except I'm not thinking that because it is about me taking you there, it is about that.  That's not very complicated.  It's not about power, it's about things that make you happy.  Uh-huh.
We're there in that part where they sell those, except here the we has nothing to do with you, this is from before that, maybe before you were born in another lifetime, in this lifetime it was the year before I met you.  In this lifetime, this was then in this lifetime, before I met you in this lifetime.
I was sleeping on the floor and remembering this, very close, I mean very clear and close, I could clearly see her hands very close, and she was touching the bags, and I could see the colors of each of them, like I could remember everything, like I could go back there, into that moment, into that hotel, into that sleeve of a memory that I filled that held me all through that night and into the night following that one, it was as clear as that, and if she could keep her hand still just long enough I could jump through it and hold it, and she always moves her hand, and it's though I accidentally let go of the balloon, that moment when you realize it's going away into the air forever, and her hand moves and that sucks air from the back of my throat.
This is the sound that would begin a cry except I'm not crying and don't have to fight it from coming, I'm not crying.  I'm not thinking about crying.  It's just the sound, it's that sound, and the same sound that the back of my throat makes when it's starting to turn from a puppy dog whine into something more serious and urgent, we both have sounds, I know it's not a contest, that was supposed to be sweet, we both make sounds, here I'm talking about you, not her.
And I'm not thinking about crying and even if I were, even if it were about that, it's a moment in time that got trapped, trapped because her hand moved, and because that moment inside there is one where we are still talking, and we're not, and I am thinking that there are fewer things more painful than reaching a point of not talking.
So I'm glad we're talking.  Except not right now so much.  I think that might be ok.  I don't think that has anything to do with sounds that escape out of the back of my throat when I remember things that are closed and are starting to cake over with salt and sand and the clay of a thousand broken pots.


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