A Vindication
1 Minute Read Time
for Natalie
Ever since I met you I’ve been fighting the urge to apologize.
My fingers are, sometimes, stupid, and I’m often overzealous, words
bursting like flares in uncertain skies, notes frenzying the felt innards
of pianos. The sandalwood scent, the sidelong glance of a foot lamp,
the careful work of your kidneys as they sort what’s worth continuing
to circulate, all of these buzz in the background as a litany
of sorry synonyms slips the nozzle of my mouth: regret, contrite,
I beg for pardon, knowing the vernacular was meant to trap you.
The nightcap in Newport, the never-ending game of telephone. Love
notes I workshopped and sent soaring like paper airplanes across the classroom. Forgive me these deceits, these fussy phonemes I’ve fit to this old
form, none of which can contend with the crosshatched glass of Seagram’s gin, golden hour, deep swigs, as you lament your ex’s food allergies
and we dream about stuffing our faces with nightfall, peanuts, crawfish.
Read more from Issue 20.2.
