Friday, September 21, 2012
Half in Halves
You offered to drive and I let you.
I half hated myself for it.
You offered a beer and time to chat.
I half wanted to drive drowsily
to the drafty house I was staying at
I agreed to a beer with you.
I half wanted to never speak to you again.
You suggested, instead, that I come to your place...
so you could visit with me while preparing your lunch for the next day.
I half wanted to tell you to go fuck yourself.
We assembled the bike rack on the back of my car
as we had done about a hundred times before.
I half wanted to tell you that you did it wrong;
the straps weren't tight enough.
I half wanted to let your bike fall off,
halfway down Baltimore Avenue
and watch it get crushed under the trolley.
But I quietly tightened the straps instead.
We got in the car and I told you I didn't want to go to your house.
I half wanted to reach over and touch the soft, sunned skin of your arm.
Instead I told you we had nothing to talk about.
We drove on and I wondered why
we keep seeing each
I told you I would come over for tea.
I half wanted to jump out the car window.
We sat in the dimly lit kitchen of your crunchy communal house
while you chopped sweet potatoes and I chewed the mint leaves from my tea.
It was midnight.
You were making soup.
It was midnight.
I was drinking tea
in your kitchen
watching you make soup.
I wasn't sure which of us was more absurd.
We sat on the couch and spoke about the people we felt ourselves becoming.
The teacup was empty and the soup was delicious.
I half noticed your eyes half closing.
It was time to go.
I asked you to walk me to my car.
I was half hobbling from the blisters on my feet.
You offered me a piggyback ride.
I half believed you wouldn't make it halfway down the block.
But you carried me the whole way.
We held each other in goodbye.
I half wanted to hold you like that forever.
And I was half happy to let you go.