Bliss of drifting.


The weight of the world, like nothing. Broken glass; stubbed toe. I don't go to Pergolesi much anymore. Our place, no more. And too hard.

But hard like nothing's hard, so much as viscous. Going would be muddy; unbearably effortless. As if it were anywhere--just another coffee shop. Maybe a little bit more pretentious, if anything. Not the slightest trace of you anywhere. You--so very there, and yet nowhere; no one. As if I weren't haunted by it everywhere. By your face not in the crowd. And forever bitter to not also be haunted by you...

Mama's in Arizona tonight. Yesterday it was New Mexico; Colorado; Utah. She's driving around aimlessly--not looking for you since you're always, but finding out how not anywhere you are. Seems appropriate not to look for anything else, I suppose. So wandering...yes. Fitting. Enviable.

I want you to be alive again. This 'dead' shit just ain't working out for you so well, girlfriend. (As far as I can tell...) Not for you--not for any of us. I miss your ridiculous "little sister" know-it-all wisdom when you'd refuse to let me try a drag off your cigarette, or never bothered yourself with my worldly and arrogant recommendations of the greatest musical artists of all freakin' time. Even now, though, I'll start a thought/memory/realization by jotting it down on paper, and then lo' and behold!, it's already looking inaccurate/disingenuous/shallow; sounding tinny & flat to my mind's own ears.

Because, yes, 'consistency' is your middle name, along with 'reliable', 'driven', 'certain', 'generous'. But then, so is 'stubborn,' 'impatient,' 'withholding'. And 'grateful', 'humble', 'self-deprecating', 'so-very-loving'. What do I make of this?! Because up against every story of you is a counter-story, dismissing expectations. Like how you came to live with me and managed to split rent even straight out of high school. Or how you used to tell me that you always felt taken care of when you were with me--so much so that you'd forget your wallet at home though it's usually glued to your hip, or buried somewhere in one of your biggest, brightest, gaudiest of designer purses. Or how the tears would rush down your cheeks after I tried my best to discern your inscrutable expression--to read your face aloud to you--and you'd tell me how much you loved never having to explain.

(But now the end of all that understanding seems as final as a car crash...)

-L (12/6/10)

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