Details

She only called

On the phone

When I was distant

Or she was angry.

And so it was

With her

The medium

Had always been

The message.

And I

Always incapable

Of leaving a message

Unread.

The pattern was

As it had always been

She would call

I would go

Because what else

Was movement for?

I had wasted

So much movement

That it was nice

Occasionally

To move

For a reason.

She opened the door.

Not her house

And also

Not my concern.

I didn’t want

The story

I didn’t need

The context.

The why

Didn’t matter.

The details

Used to matter

But they didn’t

Seem to

Anymore.

She passed me a drink

She smiled

Braless

Gorgeous

Smug

She had won.

After all

I had moved

For a reason.

And we all

Want to be

Somebody’s reason.

She began with details

So many details.

Our lives riddled

Shot through

With details

So many

Pointless

Meaningless

Preambles

To what we really want to say.

Yet I indulged

The ritual

I sipped

I listened

I nodded

Details, all.

She had an issue

Of course she did.

I was the issue

Of course I was.

She clarified

Not me, per se

My behaviour

As though the two

Could ever be

Separated

Divorced

Widowed.

The charge was that

I had fucked her friends

As though that

Still meant something.

Her friends

My lovers

She protested like

I had fucked

Everyone she knew

As though that

Would mean something

Maybe

It would.

She was desperate

To prove herself

The loyal friend

In defence of honour

Representing conscience

I wondered

Had anyone

Asked for this?

Did anyone

Actually care?

Who had

Employed her

In this role?

Who could

Fire her?

But above all

I wondered:

Where was that friendship

Weeks ago

Drunk at 2 a.m.?

Where was that friendship

In the dark

My hands on her skin?

And though they were

Just more details

The question still remained:

Where were those friends

The moment that

She begged me to fuck her again?