Wake up late, stumble around in the dark. The lights come on and it’s time to get ready; time to gather your life in bags and just leave. You’re in the car and fleeting pictures of the city flash by your eyes. Arrive at the airport. Your hands are trembling, hungover your bag. Glass windows full of airplanes decorate the walls. A quick goodbye, a rushed kiss. Involuntary tears escape your face and you gather yourself together to face the future. You clasp his hand and breathe in his last smells, the last smells of the city, the last smells of home.
I can’t feel it yet, but I’m leaving, skyrocketing myself 3000 miles away. I’ll send you my love, you send me yours.
We were never friends.
that walk felt like it stretched on for ever and ever, eternal yawns of runny streets and noisy gutters. a rainy summer night, how rare. a strange soulless face. I visited a boy today who seemed unchanged by time. brooklyn, the land of endless laundry. it’s so late. the type of late that makes the trains pass by every twenty minutes. it’s so late you could hear the city sighing.
jesus christ I’m leaving.
what would you regret if you left? an intimate dance? a meaningless night? a longing for the three words, like big, fat ice cream dollops, to come out of muted mouths?
loud ladies on the subway yelp and shout and I remember my regrets to drown out all the noise. hold my hand. tell me it’s okay. I’m scared.
tell me I’ll be fine.
The other night, I told you that I had dreams of us having conversations on your firescape, and I cried, but you seemed unchanged. Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes I really miss you.
And then sometimes you tell me you have to do your laundry, and I realize nothing has changed.
I know it’s been a really long time. And I know things were just not right.
But I’m leaving and everything is fucked and I need to know how to make it right.
I am afraid of feeling too much for all that I cannot keep with me. There are libraries of people and moments that will be burned up and up and away.
I cheat and say that I’ve dreamt it over; forget about it all.
I can be so cruel sometimes
the power of touch.
I think that, maybe, it really was my fault that I was so in love with the idea of love.
I want the flower, but the bud hasn’t even begun to bloom yet.
To be honest, I don’t know why I try so hard to befriend the past.
Maybe it’s out of reassurance, maybe it’s out of comfort -
in any case, I always wonder why it’s always me that comes knocking.
Maybe it was a mistake, and
maybe I can just let sleeping dogs
I’ll die of doubt, we all know it