"As I lay next to you in hyperacidity," I sing, in my best imitation of Geoff Tate's unabashedly bass bass, my best imitation being pretty, pretty bad. You snicker, then laugh, and your laughter extends into extended laughter that lasts more than I expect it to. I roll my eyes and giggle. It's 6:19 a.m., and our day has just begun.
There's a turn in the road and you steer; meanwhile, the DJ introduces the next song, saying it's by Better Than Ezra. I say, "T. S. T. S. is better than Ezra." You hoot with laughter and I settle snugly into my seat, secure in the knowledge that I'm the funniest person on earth. Never mind Tina Fey, and never mind the people who laugh, not at my jokes, but at my (almost always) failed attempts to crack them. You--with your usually morose moods and propensity for brooding--think I'm funny, and that's all that matters, where my sense of humor is concerned.
I squint behind my glasses and make a mental note to get a better pair. It hardly ever happens, but today, they start to play "Friends of P." and excitedly, I sing along. From the corner of my eye, I could see you grinning, and I find myself throwing a "thank you" note into the air, for turning us into the pair of (slightly saner) fools that we have become.
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
Double Vision
I am piecing you together, broken, absent one--you are whole because I say you are.
I think you up in metaphor: the rustle of leaves against a playful breeze, your laughter; this slant of sunlight, your arm; this track's drumbeats, your footsteps. "Hey, Squirt, come here," I hear you say. You are always calling people things. You are always dreaming things up; you are always dreaming. You think people are better than they are. I remember that cold December night when, not having seen each other for years, the first thing you did was scold me about my smoking, and I rethink my life.
Four Minutes, half an hour, an hour. I squint at the page I'm reading--did my heroine really say, "Death is a lie"? My eyes start to strain and I think of eyeglasses, words blurring, a morning, darkening.
Faceless, you brush past me to reach for that book you've been meaning to read since September. My breath catches, I spill my glass and I wait for the page to blot. I had forgotten you are here, and I begin again.
You are here because I say you are. Otherwise, the words I have not yet gotten to remain undisturbed. Otherwise, the page remains dry.
Slytherin has changed, kiddo. The files are saved in my drive.
For RJP. You are missed.
I think you up in metaphor: the rustle of leaves against a playful breeze, your laughter; this slant of sunlight, your arm; this track's drumbeats, your footsteps. "Hey, Squirt, come here," I hear you say. You are always calling people things. You are always dreaming things up; you are always dreaming. You think people are better than they are. I remember that cold December night when, not having seen each other for years, the first thing you did was scold me about my smoking, and I rethink my life.
Four Minutes, half an hour, an hour. I squint at the page I'm reading--did my heroine really say, "Death is a lie"? My eyes start to strain and I think of eyeglasses, words blurring, a morning, darkening.
Faceless, you brush past me to reach for that book you've been meaning to read since September. My breath catches, I spill my glass and I wait for the page to blot. I had forgotten you are here, and I begin again.
You are here because I say you are. Otherwise, the words I have not yet gotten to remain undisturbed. Otherwise, the page remains dry.
Slytherin has changed, kiddo. The files are saved in my drive.
For RJP. You are missed.
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