Ex’s rise from dead journals

This is a young person’s post-breakup diary entry:

out [Jul. 15th, 2007|11:13 pm]
i don’t care for him much anymore. he is a running dirt string in front of the breeze through the door. i imagine him in that same house, in the same doorway: busy with his life: capoeira on the beach, his new best friends and his brazilian dream. At twenty-five, why would he stick around this retirement town. he has been on two continents, he has about five more to go. funny he is on his way to MY montreal, to MY brother, to MY third language. enough running across maps; as I drive through tunnels, i hold my breath and wish that the world given him all its secrets, so he would stop and remember me. maybe he has seen and felt my secrets, he’s afraid to look at the unmolded, rough sketch of me; young clay spun wildly a few rounds. he wants polish, shine and glaze. i am not a diamond.

the other boy, is convinced, singing, smitten
we both can’t help but move our bodies, stretch our legs out in rhythm walking, kneading granville street into laughable putty. he will start the funk funk mcing, i will dance and sing, weave inside-out the cracks and loops. if i was to grant him “permission” for me to fall in love, in bed: he would be the bone skeleton frame, i would be the soft, worn out, squeaky beat.
oh he was nervous, vanne taught me when he mumbles and talks forever and ever down the never-ending highway, he is nervous.
i know how it is, i scrunch my nose to my toes, bite down my jaw, flex my lips till they don’t water so much

i try not to think of him, though i roll up and down the street in front of his capoeira school peeking through the window; one of his fancy cars are there? now, i don’t even poke into his email anymore. because there is nothing there. my ex is just text.