Thursday, December 14, 2006

not exactly what I expected, and i'm not sure it's finished yet.

Now that the leaves still find themselves confined to this place
confined to the place we no longer find ourselves
the leaves still travel up the heavy hill we no longer tread
they climb up the streets with the neon paint we remember trekking
heavy breathed, pink cheeked; we'd both smile and pretend it was easy
our getaway, i thought no one else could ever know
what the clocktower looked like upside down
while laying on the paved ground
the cross hung between the both of us
we prayed together, eyes closed, we meant it.
on a clear night, i never got a single mosquito bite, i never was so aware
as i am now.
the leaves settle themselves, where ours no longer tread
your arms around my waist, you were so drunk you couldn't even speak straight
and i let you drive, i let you touch me even as i clung to another's empty heart
i let you touch me with arms so wanting, so needing and i
needing nothing more than the assurance that i was assuredly wanted
still, we watched the band play from above and it wasn't even dark outside
you and i and all of those people we used to be apart of
although much more you than i, you still drove that red truck then and i still look for that when i'm in town
i forget you've got a new car now
the leaves still dance around in circles were our feet once were
where the cat trapst out of nowhere and we played with her idly
smoke curling lazily around our heads, our arms, our separated bodies
ashes ticked off our treasure map, we passed your grandparents, your aunts, your drunk uncle who told you to never let me go...

this was our hometown, you and i and all the others we used to be a part of
and the leaves still settle where we once drank, once sat by the fire, once nearly fell in the lake
they settle themselves outside the places

sunday mornings, i would wake you up and we would lay
arm in arm, nothing more than morning-breathed kisses, stale smoke and freshly popped altoids
and the music, the sleep, the television
the way you'd move your fingers up, and up, and down the thick strings of your bass guitars
it was all wrapped in your smell, your attention, your details and familiarity; it should've been all i ever needed

"Namesake" - Anais Mitchell

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