(0,0) lacking

The airbed on the bottom
of the tent, concave, deflated,
an unanswered prayer to last
night's bodily meandering.

You've packed up
and left already. I
sit on the shameful holder,
a broken raft, a sunken lifeboat,
pondering the whereabouts of our
relationship. If we're talking about
co-ordinates, I would say zero, zero, but
that would leave us in the Atlantic ocean,
south of Ghana, west of Gabon; and you
have a ball and chain in Montana, and I
have the world calling me.

"You've been to France?" he
asks as I unzip his pants. "Of course,"
I mumble, sighing. "You know I took
four years in high school, and then a few
more in college. Why wouldn't I go?"

He shrugged. "I studied Spanish, but it
doesn't mean I'm gonna jump on a plane
and set off to Spain."

I snorted. "Guess that's the difference
between me and you."

Perhaps our arguements
are why we don't stick like glue.
Perhaps it was the fact that
your friends kicked me in the
stomach, then grumbled when
they got my blood on their shoes.

A definite part of me
still hates you.

I'm attempting
to map out my life,
to travel and discover
a new spice, to go into
a casino and roll a dice,
once or twice.

I've been learning
a lot of things, and while
I set fire to my past, I've
saved one thing: you.

I just don't
know what
to do.