On the couch. Dark. Quiet.
I wondered if I had made a terrible mistake.
I almost reached for the phone about a thousand times.
I thought I could take it back, erase it, explain
I had momentarily lost my mind.
Then I told myself we weren't happy.
That was the truth. That what we were was safe.
It was unfair to you and to me to stay
in a relationship for that reason.
I thought about Clementine and the spark when I was with her,
but then I thought what you and I had was real
and adult and therefore significant even if it wasn't much fun.
But I wanted fun. I saw other people having fun and I wanted it.
Then I thought fun is a lie, that no one is really having fun;
I'm being suckered by advertising and movie bullshit...
then I thought maybe not, maybe not.
And then I thought, as I always do at
this point in my argument, about dying.
I projected myself to the end of my life
in some vague rendition of my old man self.
I imagined looking back with a
tremendous hole of regret in my heart.
I didn't pick up the phone to call you, Naomi.
I didn't pick up the phone.