I've come by she says, to tell you that this is it. I'm not kidding, it's over. Am leaving.
I sit on the couch watching her arrange her long red hair before my bedroom mirror. She pulls her hair up and piles it on top of her head she lets her eyes look at mine. Then she drops her hair and lets it fall in front of her face. We go to bed, and I hold her speechlessly from the back of my arm around her neck. I touch her wrists and hands feel up to her elbows no further. She gets up. This is it, she says, this will do. Well, I'm going. I get up and walk her to the door just as she leaves she says, this the last time you seeing me, as I watch her walk down the cement walk
under the trees she walks all right and as the poinsettias drip in the sun
I close the door. Take my bottle of whisky and realize I was silent, maybe all she wanted was to say here something when the drink finally hits me, I pick up my phone and decide to call her.
And let her know, even the useless arguments were things ever beautiful and the hard words
I ever feared to say can now be said:
I love you.
But before making the call, the phone rings, hi it's me, Bukowski, mind a drink. Ofcos why not, after all, theres always another day to give her a call, it's Friday. Be a Friday. Make someone smile.