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Points of Faith


When you are as lonely as this, every month smells

of her skin. Choose one, any one—February, August,

like a vending machine, cards in a deck, you can never
come all the way back. The whole damn calendar is

soaked in her. When you are as lonely as this, noon
& midnight both hold the false assumption of innocence.

There was always an object, there was always light, they

were always here the whole time you were threatening

to forgive yourself, singing very quietly, slightly off-key:
surprise, surprise, she never loved you anyway. When you

are as lonely as this, there comes a point at which your
only wish is to grow a little lonelier. At this point, if you

walk down the road, all you will find is the moment you
didn’t look back. The moment when she would have killed

or lived for you & you kept walking anyway. Such a

pointless & brutal landscape as love deserves a song like

that. Make up a new month, decorate it with more angels
or less mouths. Go away for a long time & try hard as you

can to forget the smell of her skin, wreathed into ball-

point pens, the screen door never fully closed. Something

in the dark owes you for the time you’ve made up, a debt

you will never collect, a consolation prize. Without her,

it’s a miracle how things never seem to collide into other
things. It’s a miracle how quiet this place remains.