Cigarette stubs that burnt bridges long ago, lipstick stains on coffee mugs that should have been washed, black tear marks on clean pillows – have little to do with the saved messages on my phone now. The air seemed fresher then, perhaps it was. Maybe the spring in my step, the smiles at lines in songs, were not frivolous figments of my imagination. I was high on something; the only time I didn’t slur because of my intoxication was when I spoke to you.
I’m like a ball, good at bouncing back; I’m still going to be really nice, exceptionally nice when you message me randomly. I’m really going to try and make conversation, ask you about everything under the sun, including the weather and settle for blank answers, longing for blank verse. I’m going try and keep some kind of connection, how ever thin the strings may seem.
I’m going to debate whether I should message you, I’m going to miss you, and I’m still going to care about you. You see I can’t instigate the conversation, that wouldn’t be fair, that would be cheating. If you say it first and mine is to simply respond, then it’s fine. It would be rude not to.
I’m going to try, really try. It’s been a while, feel butterflies in my stomach and look forward to a summer in the country. Then I’m going to curse myself and wonder why I didn’t leave it alone, untouched, safe under that rock or shell, just where the sea strokes the sand, I’m going to think of the honey and the moon. Maybe I’ll even drive next to him and see things feel things, I’ll watch him from the sidelines, sipping iced tea teetering in heels looking extra pretty, and all his friends say I do, trying to fit in with all the other things, but I’m wild, so wild, and too wild. Like a loose cannon that needs to be fired in Neverland and soar the skies until I find a destination so perfect I’m happy to compound there.
I’m landscapes against which we drove hard, night skies at which we looked, those silly lines, those wanted moments, those fleeting looks, that beautiful sunset which succeeded a hasty goodbye. I’m frozen in Paris but living in Casablanca. Here’s looking at you kid, in the mirror and it’s smashing.
A summer in the city, like the Regina Spektor song, I’m not lonely, lonely, lonely, I don’t protest against anything but inside I’m screaming. Or am I? I think I am but I’m also kind of quiet. I imagine scenarios where you are in town, I am in town and you see me or I see you and then the music stops.