Short mess of a story.
There are certain things I don’t want to forget.
I don’t want to forget how he shared his stories with me of childhood and pain, though when told he was distant and shrugged off the complexities.
I don’t want to forget how he lied, or rather spoke his own truth.
I don’t want to forget how it was awkward to kiss him… and all the knowing is in the kiss… but sometimes when he thought I was asleep he’d stare at me, put my bed sheet over my mouth and kiss my lips.
I don’t want to forget his boyish walk and how he’d stumble into me or give me a hardy forced bump.
I don’t want to forget how he’d call for no apparent reason.
I don’t want to forget how he didn’t want to sleep next to me for fear he’d lash out and harm me, for his dreams were terribly violent and sometimes his body responded… but alas, he’d sleep next to my bed, near my side, on the floor – like a dog.
I don’t want to forget his breath against my skin.
I don’t want to forget the timber and tone of his voice when he spoke of broken dreams.
I don’t want to forget how he preferred pencils to pens because of the certainty of a pen, and the ability of a pencil to erase any mistakes, or deny the future or the past.
I don’t want to forget how we avoided the bars, the scene, and rather walk the streets and took to classically dull cafes and crappy diners.
I don’t want to forget how he kept my place tidy and orderly.
I don’t want to forget how he’d go broke stocking my shelves.
I don’t want to forget the late nights or waking up at dusk just to smoke and talk.
I’d like to forget the drugs, the ecstasy, the roll… But I can’t… They were ingredients to his expression.
I don’t want to forget his body, his facial contorts, or his naked bum as he walked to the bathroom.
I don’t want to forget… but i have to let go…
Once he belonged to me… but something dark and sinister dances with his soul and torments him… twists his thoughts and corrupts his intentions.
I love him. I’ll miss him. Hope he finds his way back unharmed.
But what can you do? Life isn’t as easy as the emotional arcs capsulated in a two hour movie. Our certainty isn’t in a pretty package. Life is constant and chaotic, even when it meanders. In my city of infinite possibilities and countless faces, mistakes and misfortunes can be designated for the new blood that comes to town. No need to wallow with stationary figures in the city of unrest. Sure, you may bask in the ebb, but you can still flow along the shores… finding new rocks to polish and discard.
As I turn the corner of the various treeless streets of grey concrete and severe architecture, I still hope to see his face rather than some weary stranger’s. I’d like to think if I could see the stars, he’d be looking upon the same ones as I. But the stars are hidden here by the hazy stratosphere. Anything that is luminous happens in the now. Perhaps in the saturated smog that smothers the heavens, his thoughts meld with mine and I can rest tonight.
Ok, that’s the end of my story.