an older poem...
all I did was wallow that summer
He hadn't written in months, perhaps half a dozen, but for some reason as he staggered out of bed this afternoon he did not think about the girl that got away, but instead of the tap-tap-tap-a-tap of the laptop keyboard and how easily it used to cure his problems.
It had been something like three weeks since he suffered his first broken heart, one which made him feel particularly useless. The first week he wept regularly and stared at the television blankly until odd hours of the night. The second week he naïvely woke up each morning thinking she would be waiting at the front door wearing the little league baseball shirt he gave her and that unbelievable smile she possessed, one that not long ago gave him more joy than anything else in the world. I know I've hurt you and I know there's nothing I can do to make it up but I want to give it another chance because in this time apart I realized how good you were for me and how much I love you and how much I miss waking up with your hand rested on my breast and your scraggly chin nuzzled perfectly in the notch of my shoulder. She would start to cry a little bit and her lips would begin to tremble like a small earthquake was occurring inside her mouth. She would also have the glint in her eye that only meant I want you and no one else. Yes, unfortunately he loved this girl and it was his first. He thought he felt love a while back, but he was much younger then and the idea of being in love sounded so easy to him.
The third week he started drinking and drugging more often (although he had been doing this frequently since day one), not to escape, but simply because the idea of sobriety bored him. Boredom led to massive existential analysis, something he was trying to avoid. He woke up no earlier than noon and while he told his father he was busting his ass to find employment, he was actually lying on the couch spinning classic rock vinyls, letting pretzel crumbs fall onto his pale, naked chest. It was the summer, he was 20, his heart was still under construction, and the idea of a job sounded, well... awful. So he opened up a blank page and did his best impression of a man who knew how to write.
He hadn't written in months, perhaps half a dozen, but for some reason as he staggered out of bed this afternoon he did not think about the girl that got away, but instead of the tap-tap-tap-a-tap of the laptop keyboard and how easily it used to cure his problems.
It had been something like three weeks since he suffered his first broken heart, one which made him feel particularly useless. The first week he wept regularly and stared at the television blankly until odd hours of the night. The second week he naïvely woke up each morning thinking she would be waiting at the front door wearing the little league baseball shirt he gave her and that unbelievable smile she possessed, one that not long ago gave him more joy than anything else in the world. I know I've hurt you and I know there's nothing I can do to make it up but I want to give it another chance because in this time apart I realized how good you were for me and how much I love you and how much I miss waking up with your hand rested on my breast and your scraggly chin nuzzled perfectly in the notch of my shoulder. She would start to cry a little bit and her lips would begin to tremble like a small earthquake was occurring inside her mouth. She would also have the glint in her eye that only meant I want you and no one else. Yes, unfortunately he loved this girl and it was his first. He thought he felt love a while back, but he was much younger then and the idea of being in love sounded so easy to him.
The third week he started drinking and drugging more often (although he had been doing this frequently since day one), not to escape, but simply because the idea of sobriety bored him. Boredom led to massive existential analysis, something he was trying to avoid. He woke up no earlier than noon and while he told his father he was busting his ass to find employment, he was actually lying on the couch spinning classic rock vinyls, letting pretzel crumbs fall onto his pale, naked chest. It was the summer, he was 20, his heart was still under construction, and the idea of a job sounded, well... awful. So he opened up a blank page and did his best impression of a man who knew how to write.
so will the words remain as an imaginery ? or are there any sequels to that "second week" where the words are said in reality ? I think the verb "nuzzle" has been perfectly placed..and what impressed me most;
ReplyDelete"letting pretzel crumbs fall onto his pale naked chest..
"So he opened up a blank page and did his best impression of a man who knew how to write."....