If I could start over and do better I could do it now, now I know what to do. My floor would still be real wood and the would-haves would be dids. My limbs and heart would be hard and my mind would not be melted mush. My fingers would still be lightning quick and I would still weave that magic with them.
It feels like going home. But my walls aren't mine now and I'll be going near, but it won't be any less too late.
What if I could go back and find you? Drag you out of the memories or sink myself back into them, I don't care. You were never there to find, I know it, it was just in my head, you were all that was in my head. That hasn't changed, at least, but it used to be a flush at the fire and now it's just anguish.
All the old days are better than the days we have now, and when the good days are gone, we were too busy to take any pictures. They just blow away like the dust of the cherry trees.
Feels like I could turn a corner or get off a plane and be right back where I made that wrong turn. Maybe it's better I can't, so I don't have to live with making the same mistake twice.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
I live in a fire. I live on a stopped train full of chickens and cigarettes. The rain I catch in my hand is sap the trees sweat out and I am bleeding too. My skin's hot and dry, freckling at each burning pinprick.
Standing in the bathroom, my hand, for the first time, did not shake. And no one noticed. I am past catching and past caring. I just want it over as fast as it can be.
I'll be wearing a blue satin dress, I'll be trashy with my burned skin and battered heels. I'll be smoking in the shadows and I'll be waiting.
When the night comes I'll stop smiling. I'll turn my face to the wall and watch those old flames flare up, swallowing secret gasps in the dark as the rest of the world burns down and leaves just the ticket in my hand to the place that's always there. The place I never reach.
Standing in the bathroom, my hand, for the first time, did not shake. And no one noticed. I am past catching and past caring. I just want it over as fast as it can be.
I'll be wearing a blue satin dress, I'll be trashy with my burned skin and battered heels. I'll be smoking in the shadows and I'll be waiting.
When the night comes I'll stop smiling. I'll turn my face to the wall and watch those old flames flare up, swallowing secret gasps in the dark as the rest of the world burns down and leaves just the ticket in my hand to the place that's always there. The place I never reach.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
i dreamt about you last night. i've been crying all day.
When I do cry I always go in the shower because I don't want to have to atone for my sadness. I don't want to be asked what's wrong and I don't really like other people to know I'm crying in the first place. Because it's weak. Because I want to be harder than that, colder than that. But sometimes shit just gets you.
Third night in a row, and god knows what brought you back from a sore spot to a full-on specter haunting my nights again. the first night I was standing on a freeway overpass and I knew you were below me, about to pass under me. I knew because I was reading it as it happened in a notebook I had. Then I realized I was writing the words and just then you passed under me and were gone and you'd seen me but you were lost in the sea of cars.
The next night was the same thing, I was reading your words, not speaking to you. You slipped up, you said you lived in South Dallas, which is probably not even a real place.
And then last night you were standing there, a full person with a face and features and everything. You were wearing boots and jeans and your hair was cut short. It was grey, which may or may not be the case but I'd spent the night drinking with a guy whose haircut has that same silhouette and it's grey, so. Your face was red, you were flustered, you were moving in to my building. But you sat down, you started playing a game with my husband and I, and you relaxed. You had a normal face, friendly, handsome. But you were whispering to me behind a scorecard and your voice was like Tom Waits or Nick Cave, full of a rumble of frightening secrets, and the whispers became kisses.
I woke up to the same old day with the same old neighbors and that regret was a sharp as it was months ago.
I know you weren't in the old place, but you could plausibly be here as well as anywhere. Sometimes I'm walking up 1st, and I wonder if you could be one of the commuters stuck at the light, if this could be your town, if I could pass you every day and not know it. I wonder if I'd want you to see me and I still don't know. Though the shame that made me want to hide from you is still with me, I fucking miss you, and I miss being able to pretend there was going to be something more.
Third night in a row, and god knows what brought you back from a sore spot to a full-on specter haunting my nights again. the first night I was standing on a freeway overpass and I knew you were below me, about to pass under me. I knew because I was reading it as it happened in a notebook I had. Then I realized I was writing the words and just then you passed under me and were gone and you'd seen me but you were lost in the sea of cars.
The next night was the same thing, I was reading your words, not speaking to you. You slipped up, you said you lived in South Dallas, which is probably not even a real place.
And then last night you were standing there, a full person with a face and features and everything. You were wearing boots and jeans and your hair was cut short. It was grey, which may or may not be the case but I'd spent the night drinking with a guy whose haircut has that same silhouette and it's grey, so. Your face was red, you were flustered, you were moving in to my building. But you sat down, you started playing a game with my husband and I, and you relaxed. You had a normal face, friendly, handsome. But you were whispering to me behind a scorecard and your voice was like Tom Waits or Nick Cave, full of a rumble of frightening secrets, and the whispers became kisses.
I woke up to the same old day with the same old neighbors and that regret was a sharp as it was months ago.
I know you weren't in the old place, but you could plausibly be here as well as anywhere. Sometimes I'm walking up 1st, and I wonder if you could be one of the commuters stuck at the light, if this could be your town, if I could pass you every day and not know it. I wonder if I'd want you to see me and I still don't know. Though the shame that made me want to hide from you is still with me, I fucking miss you, and I miss being able to pretend there was going to be something more.
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