A Random Image
 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || June 27, 2002 || 11:14 pm

In 1989 I lost a baby. It was yours.

Everyone thought it was his, even him. I knew otherwise.

I would sit at the piano and play slow, delicate things meant to cut straight through the psyche and on into the heart — songs meant for lovers. Some of them were the same ones you had played as I sat on the bench next to you not many weeks prior.

He would sit next to me quietly while my fingertips skated the keys and his eyes would fill with tears as he gently placed the flat of his hand on my never-had-a-chance-to-exist tummy. My eyes would fill too, but my head would turn and drop slightly as they did. My blue eyes didn’t hold the same tears as his blue eyes. They didn’t belong to him.

I can’t remember whether I told you that or not. I don’t think that I did. Not the part about the piano, anyway, or really anything past it…..

Three of us. We are all blue-eyed. Distinctly different blue eyes, mine, yours and his. Would he have looked at that child somewhere down the line and noted that the blue of those little toddler orbs was not the smoky lapis of his, or the stormy azure of mine? Would he have simply and quietly marked it an anomaly that the child carried an altogether different shade of blue? Or would part of him have known, especially as the boy with the icy-pale irises grew to be a man?

I wonder now sometimes: is it really better that my belly never grew heavy and dropped that summer? What would be different had that child come to fruition? Would a 7-foot-long stuffed purple snake adorn his room even to this day? Would he beg for the snake’s story –the one that marked the beginning of his parents’ courtship– to be told with any frequency? Would you and I still dance close and exchange poetry and insult even-handedly?

Would we still have parted ways, but with more of a sense of closure and/or completion?

Damn you, Southern,” you used to say.

“Fuck you, Emm-Ay,” I used to reply.

Would we still do that?

I wish I could stop loving you, or at least have the comfort of knowing that you still love me.

Nobody worked it out »

Don´t be shy. Lay it on me.

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