Mar. 16th, 2005

onedayleft: (my own sword)
We had shared a night that was strange. Fall was just arriving and we agreed that sweaters and scarfs would soon be the height of our fashion, something we had both been waiting for. My new black sweater lay across the leather seat of my cherished 50 dollar moped and I marveled at how a cell phone could make you feel so close. No wires. I lay in a white button up against slowly dying grass and told you that the clouds looked like doves, and you told me the wonders of orchestral rock, and there were no stars. I shivered but didn't reach for my sweater, afraid that if I moved maybe it would be a dream or I'd lose the wireless signal. It was as if the river wasn't even there. Eventually I went inside, your melancholy voice playing key phrases in my mind, and grass stains on my back.

With cell phones characters as our method of choice we laid down plans. We would finally meet again, anew, and fall in love more than we thought was possible. More than I thought was possible. It was a perfect evening for love and adventure and the smell of your cotton cowboy shirts. The rain was barely coming down and gently kissing the changing fall leaves. There was an inviting metal fence and stone statues that stood out as silhouettes against the backdrop of a muted sunset. I was wearing something lucky for good measure. Finally our plans to move to the moon, or maybe just Maine, seemed mediocre next to the prospect of the warmth of your hands in the cold weather. But something warm had taken you, and your melancholy voice was cold as you made a choice in the final ultimatum. You chose the warmth in your gut over me.

The river was back, deeper, wider. The rain fell in heavier drops as I phoned a friend to "get-me-OUT!" We pounded the pavement together making puddles jump, talking of nothing. Through the sheer sheets of rain the outlines of friends appeared, warm faces in cold wet clothes. They ran and yelled and played kindergarten recess games in parking lots. One person got lost, but we all found each other again in the pink shag carpet of a teenage basement. From the mini-fridge I got a jones green apple soda, and in that moment i cemented my distrust of anything stronger. The concrete floor was hard on my back, far different from a grassy hill, so I stood and wandered, my mind doing the same. And then one of the familiar faces pressed a series of buttons and familiar music filled the space. He took the melody, and I took the harmony, and in that moment I found warmth. The river didn't matter anymore.

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onedayleft

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