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tumbled weeds and longlong nights the words evaporate quickly; my sheets become softer; we dance in the neon-lit aisles. presentations are given; the strange notion of 'defending' one's ideas come rolling in on friday; wisconsin endorses the springtime. we avoid walking on coal and the hurt would only belong to older versions of ourselves anyway. the whispers and the big green bottles and the still soft hands and tiptoeing around the cardboard boxes, these are the culminations of us. we do not say these are the lasts; we cannot; our sanity delves into riverwalks and knocked over plastic champagne glasses and non-sleep cravings. we combat the red numbers on the clocks with our analog consciousness; we are all semi-colons and commas and parentheses. the stories come and go until you aren't telling them anymore; you're living them. and when friends from long ago want to know about these last years, what do you say? retrospect is a sprinkling of the days sky, the freedom, falling in love, sticking your head out the window of a car, dirty feet, flying pens, crinkling eyes and something that rustles and tangoes and tumbles called yourself. we're bouncing in a web that, luckily, will never let us go and we recede on the horizon and we laugh with gas station clerks and write on napkins in diners and fall and rise so often that we can laugh about being one big clumsy greek myth. we have put ourselves out on the line, and when we can sit there, in the silent grass, feeling the dew streaks on our feet, we know it has all been worth it. |
