low fidelity moment
This is the story of the boys who loved me, the story of my first few desperate hours, my old flame, the first day of my life. My thinner life in songs, twisted recollection of emoting moments in dark spaces, smoke and my insecurity mirrored on stage, when I knew a possibility of being depserately, feverishly in love through eye contact, a space I am momentarily desperate to reclaim a kiss of, when I could breathe in music and it stung my lungs like a cigarette. But time travel is lonely. Every now and then I get a little bit reckless and I dream of something not so wild but juvenile, not insincere but unnecessary. How could I be so immature, to think of replacing? How extremely crazy of me. I'm feeling electric pink in the cheeks and need a show from tenth grade, a smokey place, a dark club, a warm body of music against my leg illicitly in the car. A sunshine fix, a love song and a long kiss, a warm hand on a hot spine, memories of adolescence creeping through wilco and weezer, whispers and pedals in the space between my shiny eyes and burning ears. A photobooth hunter, eye contact and sneaky feelings across a deliberately distant crowd, I hope you're happy now. Some men sing and some men don't. My summer babe, my first mine, the mountain goats climb the notches in my spine, Valentine and Oppenheimer to Deception Pass when I was only 19. I remember the mountain bed, and I miss it. I want to go back in time when my balding indie pop idols were pretending to be as young and desperate as I and my untouched lovers were. Maybe reading Lolita has thrust me in love with my own adolescence, the most tangible part not the soft kiss but the space between lips that can't. And it seems unfair that I can't all at once now love everyone one I've ever loved, collect the feelings together, they separate like a playlist, or crummy livejournal similes.