My favorite part of last night
was, having spent all day returning from Helsinki, and having eaten decadent mac'n'cheese with Salamander and friends (and also happy hour mojitos), and having walked to the Wrangler to meet an already drunken Adam--boozed and in love with summer, coming from a symphony in the park, the sun under his skin, escaping through the happy crack of his face--and having proceeded to drink, and to love each other, and be close and talk--and to be close to that missed closeness that is never far but with our bodies there face to face, closer--and having been close and happy and talking and drunk on Wrangler slushies and one dollar well drinks, close--he'd introduce me--for twelve years--the number Jesus had of disciples, the number of months closed inside the circle of a year--and having drunk and talked and closed the bar, my favorite part of last night was walking to his house, my bicycle between us, sharing the steering, leaning our heads in close to each other so we could share his headphones, listening to "Execution" by David Thomas Broughton, and trying to harmonize it into the warm dark of summer's 2am, a kind of melancholy dirge for the happiness of that close hour,
I wouldn't take her to an execution,
I wouldn't take her to a live sex show,
I wouldn't piss or shit on her, would I?
Because I love her so.
over and over, and the drunken harmonies, probably never quite in key, but close.
I wouldn't take her to an execution,
I wouldn't take her to a live sex show,
I wouldn't piss or shit on her, would I?
Because I love her so.
over and over, and the drunken harmonies, probably never quite in key, but close.