The Move

It was hard on her, on everybody.
Pride, as I always said, a bad idea in matters of love. But pride in the matter of war, a necessity.
Maybe.
I don't know any better so I got to play with what I've got.
She stormed up the stairs and through the veil of tears and through the torment of her yelling, her indignant yelp for justice, I felt the touch of her really seeing me for the first time in a long time.
How could you do that to me, she cries, a week after I broke up with him to ask him for help.
He was the only one who answered the phone, the only one with a car for fuck's sake!
Plus, how could you throw me out of the house we both so loved. Seven days to leave. On top of everything, what about that.
In the room she turned slightly, I saw her back and her tears and her trying to recuperate. It's okay she said but I knew it wasn't and my soft heart just turned upside down begging for the permission to throw up.
Not now, a firm voice scolding, maybe later.

It's just talking, blabbing they say. But I still feel sorry. True - Nobody wants to feel like an asshole or a backstabber. Now I know what it feels like and it doesn't feel good. It feels like a fuck up.

At least they got something now that is really fucked up and it should be enough to fuel the fire of many conversations to come.
To rectify.
To justify.
To explain.
Your fucked upness away.

---

Through the mesh wire fence I took a last close up look at the homeless dude's fort. Mushy feelings through mesh wire, wishy-washy all the same. Nobody at home tonight, under the stacked tables. A last look back, up to my little ship-room, source of inspiration and doom. Deserted - bleak and dreary now, frowning upon me. The distinct feeling of walking a tight rope with shaking knees. How the shiver carries onto the rope, rippling, echoing, slowly ripping you off the last little bit of self-control you thought you possessed, mercilessly breathing a life of its own into the cold, hard and twisted rope. A snake slowly twirling and twisting its way out of here, curling up in my lower back -Illusions of safety, dissolving into lost hope.
In the car I blew the smoke away and let the heavy metal roll over me. He, pretty elliptical, me, relieved not to have to talk like them. Explaining, explaining away. The lights a blurr and at the bus station a bunch of plastic bags - like those I had put my belongings into - and a ragged coat hiding a person that once was a child. With or without a mother. A father. A life.
Wishy-washy, all the same.

What a feeling, a different war.