We were in love differently. That's the last romantic thing you'll get out of me. After the protea, with the rain still clinging to each petal's small hairs; after the rainy night when I chased him barefoot down the street only to say, "That's not good enough, too late," and turn away. After jealousy, founded, unfounded... it ceased to matter. After lies and who told them, after quiet dinners with nothing to say--. We laughed, but not hard enough for forever.

One day, I will come home and his things will be missing from the apartment. He might leave a note, or a message on the machine, but I'll wish he hadn't. I'll stay for awhile. Working hard and numb until I can feel how hard again. "I've never gone anywhere with anyone," I told him when we planned New York, then Argentina. He inhales and closes his mouth before he starts making a plan, reels back a little bit before casting his lines. My desire to believe him is stronger than my desire to know him. From here, I can see for miles: Through the darkened window and Oakland streets. Through the ghoulish howl of BART and the knocking on doors. I can see Argentina from here, but I don't see us; not yet.

I dreamt you got married; I was invited. I work a dark dress, maybe blue, maybe black. Silk. Backless. My hair was swept up, I could not see my own face, could not look myself in the eye. I could not see your bride. Your father was there. The dance floor was made of wood. We were outside, maybe under a white tent. We danced and your lips were under my ear. I felt damned even then, sleeping, and the damned feeling chased me awake. One of us: "I always thought it would be you."