true story (or part of one)
He fell in love and left town; within six months the tall, lean, black-eyed young man he'd gone with was gone too and he slept under the roofs of half a dozen fledgling friends. Got a job selling ice cream, to keep himself in cigarettes and faith, called me from the chilly booth with his feet up on the counters, ignoring the customers, insisting quietly that everything was fine. Put an ad in the paper; turned tricks on the side.
True story.
Before this he had braces, and fell in love with a girl who had curly hair and a way of being beautiful that was all her own. Beautiful wasn't enough to save her from the fact that she wasn't a boy, but on a few sleepless nights beautiful was enough to keep his bed warm. She never got over the fact that sometimes love was something that got done to people instead of something they participated in. She never got over the fact that he was beautiful too, and for years it stuck in her throat like a stone. He was bad at choosing friends; they both were. I think it was why they chose each other. Sometimes the best things don't make sense.
She would mention that he could draw like he had god's own hands to new aquaintances, and he would curl them into fists and hide them in his pockets, pouting or smirking or both. If someone suggested a theme for a new piece he would punish them by dropping art altogether for weeks at a time. Yet point to pictures in store windows all the time, clean his camera, always something to remind you that he wasn't making anything. He implied it was her fault and after a time no-one knew what to believe.
They sat on cool stretches of tiled kitchen floor and drank wine, laughed and smoked joints from his mother's room. She got them dressed up in dark satin and a suit and they went to a dance. In all of the pictures he was looking away. I remember that the moon that night was thin like a scythe sharpening itself on the sky.
Oh, we'd say if people asked (they never did), we've been hanging around here for a long time.
I was there. I learned to say those things.
"I'm coming home," he whispers now, the line at his end crackling faintly, and I think the word joker and I think the word liar and I say the word yes. Also, I love you, and I wonder what Beautiful will say when I tell her. For so long she's been telling me that he's not ours to keep.
His father died and his ability to fall in love got broken. At first we chased him, filled up our lives, our forgetting, with movies and coffee spoons. This was before Mr. Dark Hair, after braces but before cocaine. When the bridge was still open he sometimes met me there in the mornings on my way to work. When he moved with his lover I forgot, and looked for him. Soon, the moon dwindled away and got so sharp it split everything open.
True story.
Before this he had braces, and fell in love with a girl who had curly hair and a way of being beautiful that was all her own. Beautiful wasn't enough to save her from the fact that she wasn't a boy, but on a few sleepless nights beautiful was enough to keep his bed warm. She never got over the fact that sometimes love was something that got done to people instead of something they participated in. She never got over the fact that he was beautiful too, and for years it stuck in her throat like a stone. He was bad at choosing friends; they both were. I think it was why they chose each other. Sometimes the best things don't make sense.
She would mention that he could draw like he had god's own hands to new aquaintances, and he would curl them into fists and hide them in his pockets, pouting or smirking or both. If someone suggested a theme for a new piece he would punish them by dropping art altogether for weeks at a time. Yet point to pictures in store windows all the time, clean his camera, always something to remind you that he wasn't making anything. He implied it was her fault and after a time no-one knew what to believe.
They sat on cool stretches of tiled kitchen floor and drank wine, laughed and smoked joints from his mother's room. She got them dressed up in dark satin and a suit and they went to a dance. In all of the pictures he was looking away. I remember that the moon that night was thin like a scythe sharpening itself on the sky.
Oh, we'd say if people asked (they never did), we've been hanging around here for a long time.
I was there. I learned to say those things.
"I'm coming home," he whispers now, the line at his end crackling faintly, and I think the word joker and I think the word liar and I say the word yes. Also, I love you, and I wonder what Beautiful will say when I tell her. For so long she's been telling me that he's not ours to keep.
His father died and his ability to fall in love got broken. At first we chased him, filled up our lives, our forgetting, with movies and coffee spoons. This was before Mr. Dark Hair, after braces but before cocaine. When the bridge was still open he sometimes met me there in the mornings on my way to work. When he moved with his lover I forgot, and looked for him. Soon, the moon dwindled away and got so sharp it split everything open.