The Truth is Not Something

A song you’ve heard a thousand times before
and even if you can’t sing you can hum
and talk about the lyrics.

You can say just about anything, really.

I broke down in the hallway.
She doesn’t want to be held anymore.
Our dog died outside covered in her own shit.
I can’t stop myself from hurting you.
Why does he believe him? Or she her?
I need money.
We all need money.
Can we offer you more books instead?
You have too many books.
No.
She calls me by my first name.
I don’t care if you were here first.
The truth is you knew what today meant to me.
I did not mean it.
I don’t believe you.
You don’t believe me?
I believe you but—
You’ll say just about anything.
I’m going to die one day and I wonder why it’s taking so long.
I don’t want to die.
I’m so very sorry.
Sure.

The beauty of all kingdoms
is the only truth I want to know today.
People cannot be read and used
like ideas and books. Only cherished or ignored or misread
—they have this in common, at least.

When I knew the truth
it was something
I could tell you.
But the truth is not something.
It is not known.
I cannot tell you.

I touch the texture of the wall and see the seven o’clock sun through industrial windows and only fear holds me up. Everything is wrapped in the low evening glow. I want to be nothing on the bridge. So admired, so inconsequential. It’s ok. You’re ok. It’s all ok. We aren’t who we think we are. We are exactly what we are. I need new dreams. We need new fears if we want to be happy. Do we want to be happy?

Who said anything about happiness?
You can say just about anything.
Really?
Really.
And mean it?
I don’t know.
I love you.
I love you.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
We have that in common.
It’s seven o’clock here.
Here too.

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