I ask you if you believe in happy endings, and you tell me the world is a radio show. The songs always end, but the songs always begin again, and sometimes a voice reaches out between the tunes to ask how you’re doing even though you can’t answer. Oftentimes, you say, there is static, and the radio waves don’t reach you, but it doesn’t mean you’re not in range. Sometimes the radio won’t listen. That doesn’t mean it can’t.
i. My chest buzzes at this, a radio buzz. I can’t seem to turn it down, but I can undo the screws of memory and wires of all the subtle feelings. I ask you this, too. How to turn the radio off. You say, There’s nothing to be done. I ask you a favour, then: smash this radio heart to bits.
ii. I hear a faint song from my radio ribcage, and your voice like an announcer cuts in and tells me no. You could never bring yourself to break anything that could be fixed. Instead, you say I should listen to the voice in the radio until, when it asks how I am, I can say, “I’m okay.” That’s a happy ending, you say. Happy enough.
And this is an