nothing more than just a fantasy (you’re as golden as i remember, though)

there’s no way to stop it

when it finally comes, when

it finally starts. there’s just the

point where we’re

all alone, and then there’s

this moment where it all changes and

we can’t stop it. we’re headed

downhill, speeding through the crowd and

on the edge of it. you can’t grab the handlebars

and i can’t manage the brakes. i’m free—

free falling. you’re running to catch up.

(is there a point where we meet?)

(does it dislocate a rib

(along the way?)

can we manage something small?

let’s take a break. we’re

at my apartment (it’s not real) (we’re not here at

(all. at best, we sit at a desk together

(and discuss the week’s work.) and i’m

interviewing you. you’re

alone, but you’re as

golden as i remember—tousled and messy

and golden like daylight. silver

glints in your

ears. your eyes are so pretty and i

can’t remember what color

they are. i know they’re pretty,

though, in the way that some people

know that they love their husbands and wives

even after they lose their memories. you’re

startled as i am, but you

don’t say a word. instead, i guide you

inside a place that

somehow fits me in all my

needy glory. you sit and i roll

to sit across from you. the interview

is quick and alright. you’re hired and

you move in the next day, for simplicity’s

sake. i insist that i can

shower and go to the

bathroom myself. i still need

help cleaning, and making meals, and

getting to appointments. you help with those things.

we grow together. and then comes

the hill.

sometimes it’s a literal

hill where i slip or catch a wheel on

some debris and head down,

and other times it’s me

collapsing after

standing and taking the wrong step

forward, or me

reaching for something and

falling, or me not being

able to get out of

bed, again, for the third time that week and it’s

only monday.

we’re always met with fear. i’m

always ready with

shame and

embarrassment. you meet me with an open mind and

an offer.

the reality of it is that

i don’t have this place

and we still just meet

once a week in front

of a desk, sitting side

by side and slowly

inching towards some

sort of friendship.

or, at least, acquaintanceship. i’m

not sure, yet. we

trade information back and forth and

i hold onto each glimpse of

you like a hungry man for scraps

of food.

the reality of it is that

you don’t like me and

i like you. but you don’t like me and

i’ll never find out if i’m

right or if i’m wrong because

we only have eight more weeks

together, and then we

part ways and i’ll

probably never see you

again. because you clean

houses and not people and

as hot as that is, i’m a person who might

need such services but i’d

hate to love it if you were to ever

help me in those ways.

the reality of it is that

you don’t like me and

i like you a lot and

nothing will ever come of this because

i’m afraid and i dislike asking

for help and it’s nothing more than just

a fantasy to think that one day we’d be

put together like this, me and your

sunshine self who’s

worked so hard to get to this

point, and it’s nothing more than

a fantasy to think that there’s

anything more than you not liking

me and me liking you.