SUMMARY: "This is his fourth year of inertia, but it can't be called stability."
NOTES: An immediate response to "Twilight," so in the light of the summer hiatus and a better presence of mind, I'll probably be cringing in shame. Also, nothing rhymes. Those of you who are talented at writing poetry, please, please forgive me for a rather amateurish effort.
ADDITIONAL NOTE: I seem to be having a great dea l of trouble getting a space between stanzas, so - - even though it's cumbersome, a bar will be the stanza break. Sorry.
Three months later, when Ari is dead, he decides
that he is going to become a better person for her.
He reads about feng shui and places houseplants
in appropriate corners to give himself good karma.
He eats leafy green things and manages not to cringe
when he raises a forkful of tofu to his lips, but he never
learns to swallow without wincing at the taste. Never.
When he opens his door and sees his arranged ferns
he thinks that she might be proud of him. A little.
It's the most romantic thing he's ever done
Even though he was never in love with her
Not really.
He can't seem to break the habit of calling Gibbs
in the middle of the night to make sure he's alive.
But in dialing, he always stops at the sixth number.
Almost.
What scares him is that Gibbs is always awake
never needs the ringing to jar him from sleep
the way McGee never needs to be told when
Tony is seeing her behind every other woman.
The way McGee now knows not to tease him
when he grows desperate and painfully scared
and passes up interviews for behind the scenes.
It's only that he's remembering, and he never
has to explain that. Not anymore. Not to them.
And that would be just fine, except other things
are changing just as quickly, and all for the worse.
He is not what she wanted him to be, he knows
that he is still the same person, under everything
because if her presence could not change him
her absence is not going to do a damned bit of good.
He still thinks the same thoughts at the same times
the only difference is that he runs away from them
because thinking is remembering and remembering
usually means that her ghost is standing in the corner.
McGee is growing brittle, snappish, and Tony doesn't dare
to call him anything other than his name. He's almost scared
of the intensity there, and maybe McGee was in love with her.
Or something else. Tony doesn't try to understand anymore.
There's no joke to be made.
Gibbs is frozen over and
Tony is tired of waiting for spring.
He doesn't believe it's coming anyway.
The seasons now require faith
like believing in cyclic consistency
is a little like religion
and Tony doesn't trust
in happy endings.
This is his fourth year of inertia but it can't be called stability
because three months ago, he had her blood on his teeth.
That's not stable. He's been standing in one place too long.
And Tony would run, if he had somewhere else to go.
Three months later, when Ari is dead, he decides
that he is going to become a better person for her.
It isn't working
she's still dead
and he can't say her name.
