The affair I was having with your spine is over. Your vertebrae betrayed the trust I placed on your lower back. It cracked and so did I.
You were leaning against the column at the courthouse the day when I prayed to whomever above that I would not have to pay the thirty-three dollar fine. Each dollar counts and I had to eat that week. I saw you. Your neck was bent and you were looking away, but we still connected. Each bone counts and I had to meet the skin that housed those bones. I said hello.
Tap tap tap. You hit your finger on my forehead to prove that I had a third eye. You said I was wiser than I believed. You believed I could see what was ahead of us. I have a gift, you said. I wonder if I still have the receipt, I replied. Tap tap tap.
What protects us also separates us. We place ourselves in cages, the row of bars like bones in our back. We are trapped in each other. We are tapping on a third eye that will never open. The key is too close that we can't see it. The key is to keep closed so we don't have to worry about finding a key.
I never had to pay the fine. I kept the thirty-three dollars in my pocket with my car keys. I must have spent it on something that week, but what? Did I grow bold and take you out to dinner? Did I use it all on lotto tickets? You looked up. You said hello.