and you know, uh huh, you will
This is real lame, but I said I'd write a page tonight and this a livejournal so I'll post it. I know it is as flat and short as a third grader.
I recall chalk on your nose and a long serenade. We were lovers for two years. Meeting you on the curb outside that bar slash convenience store-me with electrical fire hair, chugging a 40 and smoking a clove-led me from glory day to glory fall to this ripped heart glory (empty) apartment above your brother’s rock venue. First words:
“You have the look of a bride.”
“You must be a masochist.”
You sat on the concrete by me and curled your legs under you like a girl.
“That looks delicious,” you said. “Have some?”
I passed you the bottle. “Hold the smoke in your mouth, swish and swallow.”
You did. “Mephisto’s heaven.”
I smiled and kissed you on the mouth, sharing the taste. When we were done, smoky dribbles seeping down our chins, I swore to myself I’d never touch another like I wanted to touch you.
There was a show that night at this rock club. After, you took me back to meet the band. They were assholes and my high school Swedish couldn’t get us by, so we opened a bottle of Grey Goose in your brother’s old bedroom and lit more cigarettes. You drank it like water. We watched a late night parade of occultists from the 3rd story balcony; they waved epic banners, their faces painted black and white. You pressed me up against the bars so I could feel the high night behind me. You put my panties in your pocket. You touched your tongue to my navel.
I moved into this place the next day.
You coming to help pick up my stuff: Leaning against the office furniture (I’d garnered from my step-dad’s firm), the turn-table table, the stack of books that came up to my knees and spanned a rose-colored wall-as if testing their strength. Wearing leather you swore you got from a member of the Revolting Cocks and denim so shredded my breath caught in my throat when you moved in certain ways. Hair like ink against your skin. You hardly helped me move the three boxes into your Dihatsu, saying you liked watching my muscles ripple as I lifted encyclopedias over my head. The Toadies spewing from the stereo made me forgiving.
That night we tripped down Route 66 and waltzed between the lanes between red lights.
Two years later I am pregnant and we haven’t seen you since.
The chalk was from your nephew’s art set. I smudged you a silver tin man nose; you got on your knees and did Heroes by David Bowie all the way through in bright falsetto. Scared the kids clear off the balcony.
If you’re in the Navy, give me an address and I’ll send you a mixtape. When Penelope is born and older she can sing into a recorder and I’ll send it to you.
We’ll wait.
If you’re on a commune in Guatemala, meditate for me.
I will align my chakras and channel the sweet smell of your sweat.
Remember you learned the guitar and wrote a set of acoustic songs-one for every favorite part of my body. Remember you played it downstairs and even though it was a free show we made 200 dollars.
We’ll wait for you.
I recall chalk on your nose and a long serenade. We were lovers for two years. Meeting you on the curb outside that bar slash convenience store-me with electrical fire hair, chugging a 40 and smoking a clove-led me from glory day to glory fall to this ripped heart glory (empty) apartment above your brother’s rock venue. First words:
“You have the look of a bride.”
“You must be a masochist.”
You sat on the concrete by me and curled your legs under you like a girl.
“That looks delicious,” you said. “Have some?”
I passed you the bottle. “Hold the smoke in your mouth, swish and swallow.”
You did. “Mephisto’s heaven.”
I smiled and kissed you on the mouth, sharing the taste. When we were done, smoky dribbles seeping down our chins, I swore to myself I’d never touch another like I wanted to touch you.
There was a show that night at this rock club. After, you took me back to meet the band. They were assholes and my high school Swedish couldn’t get us by, so we opened a bottle of Grey Goose in your brother’s old bedroom and lit more cigarettes. You drank it like water. We watched a late night parade of occultists from the 3rd story balcony; they waved epic banners, their faces painted black and white. You pressed me up against the bars so I could feel the high night behind me. You put my panties in your pocket. You touched your tongue to my navel.
I moved into this place the next day.
You coming to help pick up my stuff: Leaning against the office furniture (I’d garnered from my step-dad’s firm), the turn-table table, the stack of books that came up to my knees and spanned a rose-colored wall-as if testing their strength. Wearing leather you swore you got from a member of the Revolting Cocks and denim so shredded my breath caught in my throat when you moved in certain ways. Hair like ink against your skin. You hardly helped me move the three boxes into your Dihatsu, saying you liked watching my muscles ripple as I lifted encyclopedias over my head. The Toadies spewing from the stereo made me forgiving.
That night we tripped down Route 66 and waltzed between the lanes between red lights.
Two years later I am pregnant and we haven’t seen you since.
The chalk was from your nephew’s art set. I smudged you a silver tin man nose; you got on your knees and did Heroes by David Bowie all the way through in bright falsetto. Scared the kids clear off the balcony.
If you’re in the Navy, give me an address and I’ll send you a mixtape. When Penelope is born and older she can sing into a recorder and I’ll send it to you.
We’ll wait.
If you’re on a commune in Guatemala, meditate for me.
I will align my chakras and channel the sweet smell of your sweat.
Remember you learned the guitar and wrote a set of acoustic songs-one for every favorite part of my body. Remember you played it downstairs and even though it was a free show we made 200 dollars.
We’ll wait for you.