i sit and try to write a story i hope you would read. something with power and imagery. but the only thoughts that creep into my mind are grass stained knees in spring, or the smell of sunscreen on her neck before lunch. the maddening rush of puppy love at sixteen or the shattering of a cars windshield (over and over again) and i've learnt that in a car wreck i'm always invincible but in your eyes i'm wandering and miserable. i used to hide under bedsheets and read novels that always ended too soon, we would grip hands at the sad parts and place each others fingerprints methodically on one another's skin. the pounding of hearts is softer then the pounding of shot glasses on the bar top but the pain in the mornings can feel very much the same, and one inevitably replaced the other when this other was lost. the smile of someone i knew but did not recognize any longer left me slouched, hands on knees, in a back lane of our busy little bar. memorizing the pavement as the nerves built up inside and insisted on leaving, and all i could think was what a waste of beer and what a waste of love and what a waste of an already wasted day. all the drugs and the alcohol and the nicotine that deteriorate my insides do not change a thing.
