Confused woman
I am going to write as I scratch a card. I am going to type each letter as if each attempt will reveal what my body mean when feeling your presence. When feeling your absence. It really doesn’t matter, because when you are here or gone, something else stays: the words you said, and even the words you didn’t say. I imagine them all. It might be an invention. Words invent everything.
For I am, at times, a grumpy woman in the morning, a loving woman, a sexy woman, a hard working woman, a tired and energetic woman, but most of the time, I know in secret I am only a confused woman!
Your bad jokes and idiosyncratic laughter. The touch of your finger on my back. Your explanation about a singer I don’t know. Your recent reading. Your new phone. Your morning shower. Your life plans without me. Isn’t life so strange?
How can so many random preferences, so many futile moments, be filled with the most tender and painful feelings?
It might be an invention. I did invent you. I already invented your departure. It’s not an important invention—I am a regular woman. But if all the inventions of the world were like this one, this silly invention of mine, oh, I could tell them all: there would be no bombs or misery.
Only the pathetic confusion of bodies that wonder why it is so good being under covers with you. And why it can’t be forever.