04.07.03 . 5:33 p.m.
210: Two Colliding

(I make a sound like metal against metal, heavy, a rusty uhm. The neighbor girl used to ask you what that noise was when you snuck her into your bedroom while your parents were at work. Yeah, a rusty uhm and a cat scratching at the door. I guess she must have clamped her knees together too. Girls, weíre all the same. Yeah, all the same.

So I make this sound, this really quiet sound, I think it might be dying air, or my teeth grinding together and I donít even realize itís rattling out until a crowd of people has turned around to look at me. Thatís nice. Actually the crowds of people are in my head or drawn onto napkins, and nobody looks at me when Iím walking and that makes me happiest. I hear them anyway, clamoring for something to love. Something that they insist I have. Something I canít find. Head up, neck down. Uhm.

We painted the porch swing with our names, flowers, and wrote best friends forever somewhere on it, one summer. I wonder what happened to her. Pushing back and forth, the hooks that held it up sighing against the metal links.

Iím just making notes.

To be the waiting one: Light comes in at a harsh angle and messes up the sheets, pulls them off the mattress. Maybe I did that, maybe it was me and not the cold air thatís been dancing with the eighty-degree weather. I walk around all day, thinking about what your bed sheets were like, what your spine resembled. I think about you a lot, still, though I know I shouldnít anymore. Itís my chest that misses you most, but itís my mouth that bares the brunt of that hurt. My teeth are getting lonely without anything to click, clack like a typewriterís keys against. I used to like to hear myself talk, now it doesnít seem worth it, without you to laugh at my jokes and answer my questions.

Tell me about being quiet. Tell me how to make these whispers of mine not scream so much. My blood is singing, itís summer.)






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