When I Stopped Listening

The first day you touched my lips was the day I dreamed we were flying along the shoreline, waving to all the pastel houses eons below us.

You kissed me on the beach every night that summer, taught me three chords on the guitar, and held the camera when I decided I wanted to make films.

But you stole my sleep, talking about your nonsensical fear of quarks and vanishing points. You were hopelessly messy and loud, and you’d fret the dog whenever you tried to surprise me.

You were as adored as you were resented. I missed you, but I was happy when you left. Your eviction notice must have materialized your fear that vanishing points actually existed, perhaps only to make you vanish.

I should not have put my confidence in you the way I did and realized how rarely you managed to delude yourself into reason. If you ever did, that was always the point when I stopped listening.