Charcoal Pink

When I was a kid, I saw a migration of worms across

a two-lane blacktop in the Texas desert. Hundreds of

huge pink worms who, en masse, decided to be on the

West side of the charcoal-gray asphalt. A Spring

morning, the dry air still biting cold, I got out of

my dad’s red convertible, sat on the hood beneath

royal blue skies and bore witness as these worms made

their way across the road – pink on charcoal – inching

in unison – slow as time.

Look, I know that no one else loves me like you do.

No one else makes me feel at home, no one else can

set me at my ease. No one else can make me feel

emptier than you. Really, no one could ever make me

feel more abandoned – Did you know? Please under-

stand me when I say I can’t be the uncarved block –

No one could be! What is can’t be what was – not

anymore. You know that. (By the way, I get drunk

way quieter than you.)

Yes, I was shirtless, and charcoal pink. Yes, I’d

already said it was fine when you chose to announce  

that boundaries are good, but you didn’t want any of

that. I would have said more but the phone rang, then

it was all happening. You told me you were leaving,

and just before you went you said, Why can’t you get

your shit together? You whispered something else as

the door slammed shut, but all I understood were the

worms strewn across the road.

I was a drunken, poisonous snail sitting alone at the

kitchen table, and there was nothing else for it but

to go to bed. I threw out the last of my drink, turn-

ed off the lights, went upstairs to the bathroom.

While flossing, I realized what you whispered that

night was farewell. I finished with my teeth then went

to the bedroom. When my head hit the pink-encased 

pillow, I looked up at a shadow-gray ceiling and asked,

What will I dream? What will I dream? 

Perhaps I won’t dream at all.