It was one of those cool summer nights that aren't hard to come by in this town. He didn't have to tell her, she already knew where he was headed. She drove the long way, slowly turning five miles into fifty. They were always doing that. What was the rush, anyhow? The river was quiet at night. Quiet and beautiful. The kind of beautiful you don't see in the movies. Everything about this place was unconventional, at best. She could spot his dingy green car from a mile away, it had character...and that sunroof. The motor was off and the driver's seat was reclined so intensely that it had already made its way into the backseat. She knew his eyes weren't closed; he was thinking. She opened the door and without a word, sat down next to him, reclining her seat to match his. There was something strangely comfortable about the way they communicated. Words were rarely exchanged and she never found it odd. Silence was golden to them; he understood what she meant, and she understood just the same. How that came to be, they will never know. And in retrospect, I don't think they ever cared. It had always been this way. The book was on her lap: beaten, dirty, and so dog-eared that there was not a page without meaning. They had no idea what they were going to do. Think, I suppose. But, in the silence, his hand reached over the book and found hers. They would make it through. They always did.
This is an apology.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
For the past ten months, the fifteenth always came and went with no particular meaning anymore. It killed her every time. All she could think of were his lyrics, "All eyes on the calendar. Another year I claim of total indifference. To here, the days pile up with decisions to be made; I'm sure all of them were wrong. Into this song, I send myself and with these drinks I plan to collapse and forget this wasted year. These wasted years: devoted friends, they disappear. I'm sorry about the phone call and needing you. Some decisions you don't make. I guess it's like breathing and not wanting to. There are some things that you can't fake. I guess that it is typical to cling to memories you'll never get back again. And to sort through old photographs of a summer long ago. Or a friend that you used to know. And there, below his frozen face, you wrote the name and that ancient date. And you can't believe he is really gone, when all that's left is a fucking song. I'm sorry about the phone call and waking you. I know that its late, but thank you for talking because I needed to. Some things just can't wait."
...That's what cowards do.
...That's what cowards do.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
And I hear you saying this to me:
But you want me to do this, like you:
And I can't...because when she's around, this is how you make me feel:
Somehow, the puzzle pieces got warped. And no matter how many times the clock turns 11:11, there's no turning back time to stop the bucket of water from spilling all over and making a grand mess of our fate.