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| Today was a “perfect memory weather” kind of day, something reminiscent of Southern California without all the bullshit.
I can’t seem to pick a song or stick to a memory. Instead I’m playing each one out, never finishing either, simply sampling what nostalgia has to offer and moving on. The front yard followed by the rooftop followed by the rock gardens and the meteors and the 405. Baited, I decide to write an old friend I knew in Burbank, wanted to know if he still remembered me. Turns out he does and I’m reminded of that house and that amazing bed and the time I almost ran over a three foot long Iguana.
I think about my first real memory and how it’s barely a second longer than thirty, and I wonder if all my memories are ever much longer than that and if I were feeling metaphorical, I’d probably say something about how this is like boiling milk when most of it evaporates because that’s what time does to you except this time you end up losing a gram of weed in the process because directions on the internet are so vague.
So much to think about.
I sit cross-legged on the couch, careful to avoid resting with the laptop in my lap because every time I do, I reminded of the person who once told me that doing that would ruin my uterus and while I’m not entirely sure if I want kids or not, I do know that I at least like to keep my options open.
Truth be told, for all my bitching and complaining, I’m reminded by weekends such as this one that I have a lot to be thankful for. And not in that cheesy, often overdone kind of way, but in the way that I can walk away from this and still smile about it.
I wonder what Paris will be like. | | |
| Maybe another time or place or we should meet here again sometime - your company is greatly missed. I followed this to the end of the road, a six day trek across mountains and deserts and oceans. Wrote your name in the sand, watched it wash away. You and your unnaturally soft hands and the way they felt on my skin - a hint of a promise of many nights spent touching like this, currency of post-teenage affection and premarital rebellion. In you, there was everything and then there was nothing. Infinite possibility as nothing without honesty, nothing worth risking really. If we are all nothing but reflections and reflectors, where exactly does the bullshit end? | | |
| Every thing you are stretches miles across deserts and oceans;
waves in bed sheets, tossed around like currents and sand.
I stand in front of you naked, trying to stay angry and failing fast.
We recite lines, practice poses - a million tiny stage performances
happening in a million tiny bedrooms in a million different places
...except here.
Every thing you are washes over me like high tide,
like false pride, like it's second nature to say "come over"
and you reply, "not tonight." | | |
| The problem is this city and the distance between me and you. Boy, you’ve got nerve to treat me like you do, and I shake and shake and count the minutes I’ve stopped breathing holding my breath for you. Twenty minutes past the hour and now I’m turning blue. Her winter coat is a fuchsia sweatshirt, zippered front, loose hood; she knows nothing about everything and everything about nothing, as the rest of us do. We’re all out cold wishing for a few more layers, another body in the bed. Why do I miss you all the time.
(This is what I've been up to:
Becoming a responsible adult while pushing the envelope on the weekends. Come Monday, you wouldn't recognize me.)
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| I am sitting underwater, a cross between floating and falling, a cramp in my thigh and telling jokes with the catcher in the rye. I am bird-like and lighted, shining knight-ed, flying kites and melting into the sofa, the red-and-gold pulling me back and forth like a want and a need and you say quietly: we'll be together someday. Someday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday - I wrote these days off in favor of straying across your bedside. I slept through a riot, a fire, and the second coming of Christ. I counted freckles as sheep and kissed your every inch of existing and then some. "Because you are made of ivory and gold..." and "...the curves of your lips rewrite history." We exist because we have no choice but to; then you bring your lips to mine and I'm fine. | | |
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