I realized today that your face doesn’t appear in my fantasies anymore. I am not sure when it made its quiet exit, but it must have. Instead, there is just this amalgamation of her and her and even her, standing there tapping their collective foot as I stumble through my dreams and hopes and anxieties about the future.
I realized today that your voice has disappeared from my memory. I can’t hear you anymore. I don’t remember your moan, or your whisper or your laugh (even though you say you hardly ever laugh).
or at least, that’s what I would like to say… I ‘d like to say I left all that in the ferns of Michigan, in the fog of San Francisco, and the sand of Venice Beach…
But I haven’t.
The truth is that I still think about you and your face still stalks my dreams, keeping my anxieties about getting a job and various medical procedures company on long hot Brooklyn nights. I see you walking through the field in that internally frenetic way you exist. I see you throwing your head back in laughter, even though you say you don’t laugh very often…
Because we are similar in that way– neither of us fit in, except into each other. We both walk through life in an awkward attempt to exist in a world that wasn’t made for us. We are like a land of misfit toys unto ourselves. We both exist as square pegs in a world of round wholes.
That is why it is so hard to leave those images and sounds and smells behind. Why it is so hard to write new stories in this new city where we have never been. Instead I just tell myself and tell the world, that your voice, your sound, your touch have made their quiet exits, and the scene is now perfectly set for a new performance…
But I am not sure when or if that will ever happen
I realized today that your voice has disappeared from my memory. I can’t hear you anymore. I don’t remember your moan, or your whisper or your laugh (even though you say you hardly ever laugh).
or at least, that’s what I would like to say… I ‘d like to say I left all that in the ferns of Michigan, in the fog of San Francisco, and the sand of Venice Beach…
But I haven’t.
The truth is that I still think about you and your face still stalks my dreams, keeping my anxieties about getting a job and various medical procedures company on long hot Brooklyn nights. I see you walking through the field in that internally frenetic way you exist. I see you throwing your head back in laughter, even though you say you don’t laugh very often…
Because we are similar in that way– neither of us fit in, except into each other. We both walk through life in an awkward attempt to exist in a world that wasn’t made for us. We are like a land of misfit toys unto ourselves. We both exist as square pegs in a world of round wholes.
That is why it is so hard to leave those images and sounds and smells behind. Why it is so hard to write new stories in this new city where we have never been. Instead I just tell myself and tell the world, that your voice, your sound, your touch have made their quiet exits, and the scene is now perfectly set for a new performance…
But I am not sure when or if that will ever happen
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