Of all words, I hoped we would be, it was on page 7, the word - sans-issue. That would be the one that would stick (well, miel of course, honey – was that page 2 or 3? That of course is sticky, but that’s different). But sans-issue – that would have been beautiful. A love without end. It means, without end. With no end in sight. No exit. Hard word to translate, like our other, “sous-silence” we were sans-issue. Always without end. In every way, we were understood, tacit, and I always thought you’d be there, Abner. I never thought of you as not being there. A world without you, without your missives, without your hand, your voice, your everything, seemed to me inconceivable.It no longer seems inconceivable because it has been conceived. I am now without you in some way. You are gone. You have vanished. You have taken yourself away and left me with no reason why. I can’t say if it is because you are protecting us because you are with Her and you simply cannot communicate (although I noticed that you could have called me yesterday and did not, or you did, but we missed each other, which I know means something. Then I tried to call you twice today but missed – were you even there?).
My missives go unanswered. I don’t know why. We are not sans-issue, are we? We have ended, then. The door closes and there is finality. What page was sans-issue on? I think page seven, because sous-silence was on page 8. It was the last word, and we were ‘une situation sans issue”, which is what I thought. A refuge and a place for each other that would always be there: you could count on me and me on you. Une fois, possible, après la, jamais plus. One time, and after that, never again.
I trusted you, Abner. I trusted you with all I had. I dropped my guard. I stood naked in the Kleig light before you hoping you would take me in with all that you had because you would want me just as I wanted you.
I never CHOSE you. I never looked for you. You were just there one day and I caught on the hooks of your eyes and you caught on mine and there we were. It’s strange how that happens. Funny how people fall for each other. Suddenly we were friends one moment, then after that, one moment after looking into those flecked eyes and I fell and it seemed to me, after your many missives and more, that you fell too. Don’t deny, Abner. I saw it. I felt it. I read what you wrote. I saved every word, and thank god for that because otherwise I would think I’d lost my mind. I would feel crazy.
Am I sans-issue? Are we really without end and is it really up to you anyway anymore? You are not the only one who can slam that door or even shut it quietly anymore. Each day you do not contact, each day you do not play tag, in some way or another, each time we do not touch (through the ether, through voice, some way, through touch), we lose a piece of each other – rather, you lose a piece of me. Did you know this? Would it help or change anything if you did? Surely you must know it, but ever the defeatist you must feel me slipping away and this is easier for you.
It’s easier because no matter what you want (and I know you wanted, Abner, I was your Marvell – your “coy…” I won’t say the rest because... I was your backward lover and you mine. We were lovers. We are no longer. Lovers not lovers. How to describer you, Abner? God, you leave me, you leave us, yourself, at a loss. There is a palpable change and I feel it – I know you feel it too, but do you mourn? Do you feel the loss?
I have no more to write on word 7 of the book I made for you: of sans-issue. What can one write about a word that means no end, other than to say, I was wrong – there was an end after all.
Page seven we then edit: take out your red-pencil Abner, it’s what you do best after all. Rewrite and revise, sans-issue – it means no more nothing to you. Tear the page from that book you wrap tight. Strike a line through the type. The end has come or passed. Sans-issue – so we did not last after all. I was wrong. Tell me am I right? Oh, right, you are lost in brief aphasias. You’ve lost your tongue again. For one who works in words, you are mute when you want, when it suits.
Sans-issue – Where are we now, Abner? For all the sous-silence, once of us must say, one of us must know sooner or later.
