In Denpasar

A memory that starts clearly enough, then begins to fracture—voices overlapping until they’re impossible to separate.

…

We were in Denpasar, in a nice hotel. It
was Christmas and, there in the dining room,
Christmas music was playing for rich Indonesians
eating breakfast. The songs were filled with
obscenities. Nobody had any idea. It was glorious.

You said: why are you always like this
I said: what are you talking about
You said: this is what I’m talking about
I said: all you do is talk

You said: why do you treat me like this
I said: treatment is not an option
You said: a treaty is a meeting of minds
The waiter said: who are you talking to

I said: how are you even talking too
I said: what?
I said: I think she needs help
I said: those were the days

…

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Those days were the

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The days were those

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Were those the days

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Days the were those

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