It was somewhere near the airport, I think. Why would you take me there? It wasn't a first date: it was a second meeting, but it felt different, and I was still the kind of young woman who was, perhaps, looking for significance in locations.
(more) After years of correspondence, no calls, we met at the cafe of my choosing, down on Franklin. You were as tall and thin as I remembered, and your skin was very fair: the next summer it would glow more after you'd taken up surfing as a way to exhaust your body so that your mind would still.
We ate. This beach, was it next to LAX? The moon was so ripe it almost fell into the water, but instead an airplane did. It was small, and we watched from the sand as this chaos unfolded, and people were rescued, and I think everything was fine in the end: not so much a plane crash as a premature landing.
Your mattress was on the floor. Your everything was better than I'd imagined. In the bathroom the next morning, I saw light around the tub drain: the pipes emptied to the dirt outside the house.
It has been a long time. You have heard that I am living with a man, that we might sign a lease, so you didn't call back when I was in town last month. I had not realized that the night when the moon stayed and the plane fell, when we shared your hard bed, had changed everything. How many boxes of letters are rendered obsolete by exposure of skin? How did the shape of my body matter more than the shape of my words?
I should have known: if I'd stopped to notice my breath I might have felt the same.
how am i supposed to
forget making a fool of myself
over and over
because when i'm in the midst,
doing the lord's work
and off to the periphery you're
(more) smirking like lucifer.
the blush comes so hot,
my face boils because
you are wearing stockings today
and nothing else. (less)
You tell me that this is like painting. You claim that this is just like mixing the colors and altering the lines and curves of an overall painting to make it perfect. But my mind just doesn't work that way. To me, painting and doing this are two very(more) different things. I know for a fact that I'm a decent painter; I've been doing it ever since I was a little girl.
And like you, I do love words. I love how they sound, how they are formed, the history of where they come from, and how I can memorize them fairly well.
But you don't know what it's like for me when I have a sheet of thick, rough paper, a slender brush held between my fingers, an array of water colors before me, and a vivid idea or scene in my mind that must be expressed. Doing this has always gotten me mixed results. Sometimes people say I'm good, others say I need improvement. I only get positive results when I spend hours perfecting it. You spend significantly less time than I do.
I know deep down that no one is perfect, but in the same way that my mind hesitates and resists the possibility of doing this, it is also reluctant to accept that statement.
After all I've discovered
I now know more than I could ever care to
And I can't believe everything you tell me.
On the outside, you're one person
But behind the wires, that changes
(more) There are multiples of you
Driven on by wild dreams and desires
Ones you dare not speak openly about
And as I discover more, I feel a hollowness inside
As if the world around me is crashing down
Destroying everything I once believed in
You don't have to tell me a thing
I've already heard enough(less)