I don’t know
I’m too hung up on myself to ever get into somebody else. (Except when I’m trying to get into somebody else.) We only love on the condition that we’re loved back, and who’d have thought we could be so possessive over something as vague as a feeling. But I don’t need a reason to keep a girl close to the chest, because if that hand flops on the river and I bust, well, there’s always or never next year. There’s always your best foot forward to a smaller part in a bigger picture, or five spaces back to that ex you like to text at 9 p.m. in a faux-sincerity with the intention of putting your tongue in deja-ic repetition. It’s-Been-Too-Long’s and a laced I’ve-Missed-You. But there’s always the chance she won’t pull the string and all that innuendo just has to sit there like an decadence in the room.
She might be just fine, got a raise or changed jobs and just happened to meet with so-and-so-and-so. Or maybe it’s gone to hell and she’s so happy you called. And you get a kick or tingle from it all, a pleasure from the grudge you swear to God you can’t be holding because your hands just don’t have the room for it. There should be a word or phrase to better capture that feeling of “Not that I’m mad at all that’s happened, but I’m enjoying the hell out of your misery, because you’ve done me wrong, so fuck your happiness.” But I suppose there is a phrase for that, and that phrase is ‘holding a grudge.’
But it’s hard to stay mad when they look so pretty on Facebook.
Seed half a pint of whiskey as this half a soul is bared: it’s a quarter past too late and my baby’s just in time. The climax is on the way (don’t mind if I climax on the way.) Hard to hold it in when your hair smells like so much yesterday. And it’s such a short ride for a low so high, but don’t bother strapping in or you’ll regret me before you know it. Got an obsession with your on name it, Coach, get me off the bench. Never mind the never-minds- it’s a pleasure, or whatever, depending on what you’re into. Music, rhythms, drinks, skin, base, base.
The crowds a sea, but we’re still drinking, because otherwise we’re drowning.
It might have been the way Jane’s eyes shone so little and bright against the dark, how Kevin’s laugh came barking by when someone asked Who-The-Fuck-Ordered-Stupid. So many hands and sways in the silence. So many bottle-graves lining our insides and the hallway we flung empty pizza boxes and sentiments. I looked outside and the moon was empty, but I had a smile at arms reach in every direction. All it took was a moment. All we needed was a flame. Passing a nought or not-so-likely while guitar strings hummed another heartbreak and we let our bodies fill in the blanks. And yet it all felt bland, already done, lacking cause or better motive than We-Feel-This-Way-Because.
It’s 3 a.m. and Jane can’t find her legs. Kevin coughs when he meant to laugh or say a thing. Nobody else is coming, no one else has a time or off-hand joke that might settle the distance growing between us. I look around and can’t tell my voice from the light grey shadow growing between the blinds. Can’t tell what sunrise or unknown other is lurking between my arms. But the glaze in what’s around told me what’s done was done, to lay back and enjoy the high, that all was left was malady. Yet I could not keep still. Couldn’t let myself settle into the soft milk and honey of the-moment-after. Felt guilt, felt unsure, felt responsibility marching at my phone’s vibration. I had to go.
Maybe I didn’t let myself have fun, or maybe fun would no longer have me.
A leaf ashes brown with Fall while I watch two strangers holding hands and having coffee in the park. The smoke from their drinks rose like the nicotine between my lips and for a moment we were one, but then he laughed at some sweet mockery and she pinched his arm hushing “Don’t say that!”, and as I breathed it in and held my breath, I felt alone and couldn’t tell where the moment’d gone.
People watching is a spectators sport and I hate to think of myself in anything other than a spotlight. I get so full of bad ideas, some terrible and menage’d, some full of lust, or envy, or something else you can’t define when you watch two people kiss and think Oh-Yes-If-Only. And just as my eyes get wet with cold and passion, a slight burn on the butt between my fingertip reminds me my break is over. I drop the solider to the floor, salute a soft step forward and about face to work while my two lovers fade again into two strangers.
The enemy to every lush are good songs that finish before a cigarette or feeling does.