walking during the early morning through the snowy fields between the dorms and student apartments. cold, clear, and a sharp sun revealing a truth you chose to ignore last night… duran duran playing in the background…save a prayer to your shrinking heart.
sitting in a dark movie theatre, watching in horror as she cried in embarrassment over how poor she really was, bring on the dancing horses to hide your shabby second hand store clothes, running from the geeky devoted to a shining well-clothed star who’ll always be better than you.
in a dark tiny room that costs way too fucken much, you hid in a corner pocket of nyc, outer borough, no man’s land, full of gunshots and mice. in the dead of night, you look at your ceiling and see the milky way, shimmering and white.
same tiny room, too filled with silly girls and their friends, when the golden boys visited was a treat, and thoughts of ray’s soft fingers running along your face embedded a tender moment about calls from a new england looking for you or his sleepy brilliant head resting on the couch pillow, his pocket full of $50.
home again, home again, in a beat up car with my muse. driving no where in particular, dodging deer in the headlights, eating oreos with birthday candles, and and and, waiting for the ten ton truck to kill the both of us, we laughed, we wanted, and we knew it wouldn’t be, even back then. nevertheless, this bright light never goes out.
18. dumb. halloween. dorm. party. nick with a safety pin in his lip. jim in his crazyass pink/brown plaid old man suit. you trying to figure out how to sit with a tail. should you stay, should you go? finding the spanish was a secret you thought only you knew. those long black satin gloves did the trick.
it was over before it was over. prospect park, before it was safe, after 5+ years we had nothing in common. a long and painfully drawn out conclusion. packed up junk and me moved way north away from you and your dreams of it being over… i found peace. and you again in a year.
northern lights over a sodus park. fucking around in the middle of a swamp with bugs biting and sweaty skin. heralding that much sought after cry on an early sunday morning in your childhood bedroom…here’s where the story ends.
walk through all those rooms. remember how they tasted and smelled. how often your heart skipped a beat, or how warm and mushy you felt when he put his arm around your waist. read and re-read your poet’s musings as if they were written just for you. it plays when the theatre burns while Will watches, it plays when you walk through the indifferent city streets, full of indifferent city people, stuck in the now of it, when back then it was gritty, tough, painful, beautiful skyline, with the towers, elegia…on the radio.
