(no subject)
Which memory will find us years from now
when we laugh in bed on a weekend late morning,
when you say: that time and I say this way
and we both tumble our thoughts out?
I will remember finding you in the coffee shop, Decatur warm with guitar case, walking though the bank plaza, you drawing vines on my shin with a blue pen until the woman heavyset blond reeking of liquor told us she needed gas and we both knew what she needed but gave her a dollar anyway. You will remember slow rumble of nearly spent passion, fire spreading strangely across prone flesh, red flannel, echo of clouds passing across full harvest moon, holes the shape of hearts and dragons.
I’ll smile: Harvest me.
You’ll lower your eyes: Like the beginning.
I’ll trace my fingers along the flesh of my inner arm where once, years ago, you wrote I Love You in silver sharpie and I kept replacing you with black ink, red marker, charcoal stick, cerulean paint. You’ll take my hand away; mark me again with callused fingertips.
I’ll whisper: Indelible.
You’ll roll into me: Willingly.
Saying: this way. Saying: time. Saying: remember.
What we will both remember is how we just knew, never knowing what we knew until we knew it. What we will both remember is how we learned each other this well.
Well….I’ll say
And you’ll say…you don’t miss your water
And I’ll say…No baby it’ll never run dry
And we’ll both laugh in bed on a weekend morning years from now but now you are three states away, alone and in tears, and all I can do is fast forward and rewind simultaneously, which leaves me no closer to you, no closer to that fictional weekend, with only the promise of time and the persistence of memory to determine that this too will someday be a moment that brings us both to tears, and you will gently trace my cheek with callused fingertips, Iwill taste the salt of your sorrow on the thin skin of my lips, and we will remind each other:
I am holding you.
I am here, now.
I am holding you.
when we laugh in bed on a weekend late morning,
when you say: that time and I say this way
and we both tumble our thoughts out?
I will remember finding you in the coffee shop, Decatur warm with guitar case, walking though the bank plaza, you drawing vines on my shin with a blue pen until the woman heavyset blond reeking of liquor told us she needed gas and we both knew what she needed but gave her a dollar anyway. You will remember slow rumble of nearly spent passion, fire spreading strangely across prone flesh, red flannel, echo of clouds passing across full harvest moon, holes the shape of hearts and dragons.
I’ll smile: Harvest me.
You’ll lower your eyes: Like the beginning.
I’ll trace my fingers along the flesh of my inner arm where once, years ago, you wrote I Love You in silver sharpie and I kept replacing you with black ink, red marker, charcoal stick, cerulean paint. You’ll take my hand away; mark me again with callused fingertips.
I’ll whisper: Indelible.
You’ll roll into me: Willingly.
Saying: this way. Saying: time. Saying: remember.
What we will both remember is how we just knew, never knowing what we knew until we knew it. What we will both remember is how we learned each other this well.
Well….I’ll say
And you’ll say…you don’t miss your water
And I’ll say…No baby it’ll never run dry
And we’ll both laugh in bed on a weekend morning years from now but now you are three states away, alone and in tears, and all I can do is fast forward and rewind simultaneously, which leaves me no closer to you, no closer to that fictional weekend, with only the promise of time and the persistence of memory to determine that this too will someday be a moment that brings us both to tears, and you will gently trace my cheek with callused fingertips, Iwill taste the salt of your sorrow on the thin skin of my lips, and we will remind each other:
I am holding you.
I am here, now.
I am holding you.