Salt

You appeared.

“What the fuck?” You said nothing. “How did you get my address?”
“I needed to see you.”
“Why didn’t you write? Where have you been?”
“I didn’t think you wanted to hear from me.”
“Good guess.”
“You’re the one who left me crying in the street.”
“Whatever.”
“Can I come in?”

Your perfume confuses me. I am susceptible to your smell, and your haircut angers me. Why didn’t you die when I was gone? I try to focus, but I slide off and who let you in?

I am a marionette. You are one, too. We fiddle with each others’ strings, but who sustains and motivates us, I do not know. This is why we describe our gods as fickle and cruel.

“I have something I have to tell you.” And then you tell me.
“That’s. A dirty trick.” But it wasn’t.

First I cry, then I break my hand. Blood and tears, salt and water: that’s mostly what I’m made of. I let them run, but there always seems to be more. Enough for everyone.