The Corpse observes me from across the street, like I am a museum. He looks perplexed. One eyebrow moves up in search of an answer lodged in the brain, while the other is fixed. His eyes stare into me without shame. I pretend to be enraptured by the plucking of weeds. I make as if I don’t notice. We do not speak. We have not done so in a day, two days, more than a week. But now, he watches me as I pluck and write. He will not move toward me, and I cannot. There are still weeds, and still words to put down on paper.
This has exhausted me, as all romantic affairs have. I replay our history, just to see if it was worth the impact. There are not many words to recall. There are not many experiences above ordinary. There is not much at all. Yet, the disaster we find ourselves in, still causes an ache.
He sees the bond. I see the bondage