my grandparents drove me here, to this airport seat, to this brightly lit room. they drove through the gray, we drove through the beige of the suburbs where all the buildings look alike.
what am i trying to say?
i am listening to the new tender forever, finding an old friend in a reformed body. the mist over the city, i think my glasses are dirty, you are looking a little bit different. i love you just the same. i miss you just the same.
sometimes when the only thing you want is to feel really alive, saying goodbye makes you cry. i didn't cry saying goodbye to lois and eric, i was trying too hard, holding my eyes opens with some sort of determination, not saying anything. almost crying hurts worse than crying.
to stop and to think about being about to get onto an airplane is fucking scary. we will hurtle through space. it is flying, it is magic.
where does one actually belong, after time finding friends in new bodies, in better shape, with different thoughts, and then you are in some magic place, or are looking for some sort of magic, are trying to chase each other back in time, finding the things that you had in common, or maybe there was never anything there. to what extent is friendship a construction? a house built of marshmallows on the beach, you just only hope it won't start raining, and then maybe now it's melted down, and rather than starting over you try to turn the knob of fluffy sugar that has dissolved anyway.
i love you still. even if it only in a memory. can i love you in the past tense? can i keep stealing that line over and over out of andrew's poem, out of my own heart.
how does time work? how does love work? how does magic work? how is your imagination different and/or the same as mine? to what extent are our imaginations shaped? to what extent is the problem not rain but different concepts of how the house has weathered time? to what extent does it being well built make a difference? to what extent can you compare friendship to marshmallows?
No comments:
Post a Comment