Sylvie Ideas
Kind, of course. Cat person. Doesn’t invent
a truth-telling game then immediately tell a lie. Has epiphanies.
Has never paid with an app. Philosophical. Not self-obsessed. Someone
with a past she wears lightly, like a diaphanous scarf. Someone
who hedges before she uses a word like diaphanous
so she doesn’t sound so full of herself. Years ago
I could shut my eyes and call my right person
right up—the soft collar of his oxford shirt, his hands.
He likes that I sing in the car. He thinks I’m funny. Selfishly
I want him to sometimes look at me like he can’t believe
his luck. Like I’m somebody who’s lucky.
But that’s an idea
of someone. Once you have the real thing, the reality
erases it. Now I close my eyes and Cal is asking me
to prom. Asking me to turn my music down. He’s looking at me
because the check is on the table. The door’s caved in
and the mirror’s shattered and when we collided
I bit through my tongue and I yelled his name until I hated it
and I hate saying it even more now.