David Morgan O'Connor
Latitude 32.735 Longitude: -117.149
But we try, we tried, still trying.
So much we’re embarrassed to even
talk about it or explain it or even
get into it…
This is simple. Started with a kiss in the heart of Covent Garden. Into a room on Shakespeare Road near Brockwell Park. An airport kiss in Doha, Qatar. Lust blossomed into Love, (yes with a capital) on Brompton Road. Steak and red wine for breakfast. I learned your language. You learned mine. In Green Point, Brooklyn we decided on Sao Paulo. Six months later, I carried your bags to Barcelona. Miami.
In a Rio de Janeiro clerk’s office the radio played our wedding song as we signed divorce documents. Felt like a bad film. Albuquerque. Ontario. Tomorrow, San Diego.
An email just arrived from my mother:
What’s your address?
Your licence is expiring.
My address book has 21 pages of you.
I write back, don’t worry I’ll be home soon.
But I worry, we’ll settle and quit.
Do hearts like bodies weaken with age? Is there a finite quantity of Love
(yes with a capital) in this thing we never allow to end?
This beauty is battle. We’re breaking
the rules we built, and it still feels good.
Straight lines are boring.
About the Author: David Morgan O'Connor is from a small village on Lake Huron. His writing has appeared in: Barcelona Metropolitan, The Great American Lit Mag (Pushcart nomination) , The New Quarterly and The Guardian. Tweeting @dmoconnorwrites and other work at davidmorganoconnor.com