Love Post.
If the title is too much, please do scamper now.
No time for non-Bryan Ferry-luvvin' fairies at this juncture. More than this.
The weekly therapist/mixologist Jeremy says Nancy, do you recall a morning at X. I say Yes, I do, regaling him with his own self-made details. They include a girl I do not know and Jeremy carefully purchasing a mug, a thing, a gift. I ask Do you LOVE the girl and he - sadly - balks. This boy I pegged as human, as genuine, as Real, as It All. He says I have said It but I don't know if I mean It. Plunging toward sad I ask Then why say and he say c o n v e n t i o n. Which leads me to the next scene of my lifemovie when I am driving aimlessly without a real home towards wherever and sobbing - the last time - for him. Concurrently, writing the first airy draft of a poem called same, the last time I cried for you and it's sad, sweet and liberating as it's - get it - the last fuckin' time. The last time a person can touch you somehow with words, memories, or remnants.