once the story's written

     
overnight flight, 7 hours to fly back home      
     
been two weeks away      
to a place where the beds and liquor are cheap      
two weeks away from my life      
to a kind of waking dream      
now ended      
     
it’s after midnight, the plane somewhere over Australia  
I sit half awake  
     
my mind wanders, breaks the rules, gets to thinking about her      
one of the good ones who come and go      
the good ones, the ones that get in      
the ones who leave something      
     
it’s easy to remember the sex, 2 weeks of it      
the after-coffee breakfast head      
gifts that last as long as they’re given      
and other things about that, the way she fucks, to say it that crude      
     
I liked that she dies in it      
my ego, must be, to watch her mind give way to her body      
the change on her face, to watch her eyes as they rolled      
when she left the sweetness behind, got that other look to her      
sometimes all the way to a bitch-wolf snarl      
     
she took plenty too, made me fight the good fight      
honestly wanted to fuck her to a standstill      
somewhere in it give her a hard edge to the softnesses      
to make us stick        
     
don’t know what that means, but that’s the way I like it      
a touch of fight-fuck      
a woman who can lay that way, strong enough      
who knows her body, trusts        
     
felt my dick get up for her memory      
had to adjust my jeans, rearrange myself in the seat      
thought about that some more, but nothing going anywhere in memory
so left that all behind            
     
thought other things, like what makes a woman fly half the world      
to meet a man she knows only by his keyboard kiss      
     
figure it must be the stories, her living her own dream      
flew to meet the story she’d built up in her head, just like I did with her      
wondered about that, about her own flight back      
what it must be like to be her, flying back to her life      
her own memories with her, of meeting a shadow      
someone that writes a version of himself      
believes his own bad press      
     
I laughed in to the plane window      
     
women know plenty      
so she would have thought the usual things;      
the disappointments we always bring, some surprises, and flesh and blood      
who doesn’t stay solid like words on a page, but changes      
gets drunk, sober, tired, grows weaker and stronger      
pretends he knows but knows he doesn’t      
     
laughed again      
cos that won't be the half of it      
     
words on a page      
voices in the air      
cuddling in the dark      
it’s all the same      
     
no one ever really knows anyone, all shadows      
     
thought about that awhile      
how much I can know of her, from two weeks together, her away from her children      
probably got more attention than she'd give any man, in her real life      
so she has her own fictions      
     
thought about that a long time      
     
     
     
     
an hour before the plane landed I pulled out my journal      
figured I’d get a few memories down      
the bits I usually forget;      
bar names, hotel names, lakes, sunsets, volcanoes      
then thought about writing the leaving      
     
wondered about that, why that matters      
then decided it didn’t, left it unwrit, let it fade      
and then was vain enough, in the half-light, to wonder again what she saw      
     
decided that didn’t matter either      
     
can’t write my story in other peoples eyes      
     
only matters that we were there      
and if we got something of whatever dream we were chasing      
well      
that’s enough