(no subject)
I remember back two years ago when 2:32 AM meant an over-the-phone lullaby from a chubby 15 year old boy with a guitar. It didn't matter that those lullabies probably drove me further from sleep and that I'd be awake for at least 2 more hours, on the phone. . . All that mattered was that I got one before I fell asleep because it was how you said "You're the one" when you didn't feel like being impulsive.
Sometimes 2:32 meant that I'd crawl out Kyle's window and run barefoot to your house with a full face of makeup on. I'd bust through the door and this chubby 15 year old boy would call me a Spy Kid, then tell me to shut the hell up. . . His mom was asleep in the next room back then, when the word Cancer didn't concern any either of us.
And then 2:32 might mean a struggle for a chubby 15 year old boy to stay awake until the morning, since he knew he'd never be able to wake up early enough to meet me for coffee. . . he'd just have to stay awake and then fall asleep - even after espresso.
Now 2:32 means still silence broken by an occasional train, me staring out a window and wanting to run anywhere. . . but having no where to go.
Two-thirty-two now serves as a reminder that we've passed the dreadful moment when we change from child to something else. All 2:32 is good for now is livejournal, conversation with associations rather than friends and realizing that the world will never be the way it was when we were fifteen years old.
Sometimes 2:32 meant that I'd crawl out Kyle's window and run barefoot to your house with a full face of makeup on. I'd bust through the door and this chubby 15 year old boy would call me a Spy Kid, then tell me to shut the hell up. . . His mom was asleep in the next room back then, when the word Cancer didn't concern any either of us.
And then 2:32 might mean a struggle for a chubby 15 year old boy to stay awake until the morning, since he knew he'd never be able to wake up early enough to meet me for coffee. . . he'd just have to stay awake and then fall asleep - even after espresso.
Now 2:32 means still silence broken by an occasional train, me staring out a window and wanting to run anywhere. . . but having no where to go.
Two-thirty-two now serves as a reminder that we've passed the dreadful moment when we change from child to something else. All 2:32 is good for now is livejournal, conversation with associations rather than friends and realizing that the world will never be the way it was when we were fifteen years old.