You always want to write when you can’t. When you’re standing in a crowd of people and think about the boy you liked in college with the coy fish tattoo on his arm. How you snuck into his room and stole his copy of Fight Club off his shelf. He talked about intelligent topics. He knew everything as far as you were concerned.
One summer he talked to you for hours and drank a bottle of wine and slept in your bed. You don’t remember much of what he said, he didn’t say much. That was his thing. If he did talk it wasn’t about him. You had Italian class together. He was a good student but not as good as you thought he would be.
He would sometimes talk to you at the bar about class. You didn’t know what to say other than laugh at him and drink more. Senior ended and you found out he had gotten a girl off campus pregnant and had a child his whole senior year. Maybe he would have been better as a friend because you’re sure he didn’t know what to do. A 22 year old from the east coast who liked Glassjaw and At The Drive In.
Now you’re seeing a boy who reads. And knows things. And you don’t know anything. You barely exist some days – and now someone wants to know why you are sitting on his couch or laying in his bed and what you want. You wake up early and look around the room and see traces of who you are and who you were. Band posters, Kafka, Camus, Balance and Composure, Blue is the Warmest Color, a spider plant, records, Monet…how is someone suppose to know where they left off and where to pick up when your whole life has been floating in and out of other peoples record collections, glasses of wine, bottles of beer, late nights and headache mornings. When will it just be one record collection? One glass of wine. One bottle of beer and the same morning and night until it isn’t anymore.
I have no idea what I’m doing but what else is new.
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