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When I chose to spend the rest of my life with you, it wasn’t when I first decided to love you. It wasn’t when I first told you I had decided either of those things either. You were wearing a VR headset listening to Ecco2k, standing chopping garlic at record speeds over our white marble. I sort of made a moment out of it the way you do of these things, the thought of the way I would lick the sweat off the hairs of your forearm and such, the tipping point of muscle. It was a penthouse apartment in a warm city. I would play electric cello on balcony in the misty rain on 400 micrograms of LSD and a Percocet and when you came home you’d sit on the floor palming distortion pedals, staring deep into the veiled sun. We had a white living room with nothing in it but a giant gong.
The rest of life was a vacation, a kind of ending thing, so choosing to spend it with you was a personal miracle. In bed at night before I had decided so I used to close my eyes and pinch my thumb and forefinger together over my forehead, then slowly draw it upwards and imagine I was unspooling the curls of my brain. I resist rest as an antidote, you write letters to the tooth fairy, I own three guns and you hate change. You once bit off the tip of my tongue while we were having sex and I thanked you on instinct before chewing and swallowing.
At death I am a wistful thing. I have chosen you, and I have believed in the magic of our being and will be immortally sorry to part with you, you the one thing I have truly known. The tabloids used our lives as quack medicine, claiming to hoards that our evil was a neat indicative of the times, these rotten and uncatchable times, invisible as music.
