tomorrow maybe

says him to her, you know— i did try.
it’s not so much giving up
as deciding it’s not worth it anymore.

and what about your gift, she asked twiddling her thumbs, what about
the way you were
(in childish glee painting pictures with words on paper
i guess you had too much light we couldn’t see past your lunacy,
thought you were plumb nuts, but)
you seemed so happy then.

he gave her a stoic glance scowled for a minute thinking
what was i before i don’t remember.rainbows?coloredbulbs?fireworks?
well, he said, i lost my lunacy.
i’m perfectly (in)sane now [i lost my color actually and i don’t have anymore paint, you know, the store ran out last eternity]…
just forget about it okay?

she twirled her hair around her finger,
but what about your words? she pleaded
words what words, I was bullshitting you. he rolled his eyes.
you knew that, everyone said so.
after all if enough people say something isn’t it true? there’s a bit of truth in every rumor you know–

–so you’re saying you give up because they told you to?
yes. that’s exactly what i’m saying.
he picked up his briefcase and opened it, thrust a palette
three paintbrushes seven canvases a couple nickels a painted seashell and the words “I am not a quitter” into her chest,
so that she stumbled with their weightlessness.

it doesn’t matter anymore–
now i’m leaving, he told her and put on his holey hat.
but
she hesitated–
but what about me?

honey,
he said,
you never existed–

and she found looking down at her shoes that she was only a drawing he’d ripped to shreds and slowly she was burning back the way she came

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