August 31, 2009

"This too shall pass"


I want to be a person with a story. I want to be warm, glowing, exude the kind of golden heat that some just do - they drip in viscous honey.Throaty happy. No more quiet little tragedies by bedside tables, no more false romanticism, no more pretence, no more clammy hands and pins and needles. Truest true, white blood heat that cuts through your bones. Expectations. Not knowing what one wants at seventeen, they look at you like you're a slacker brat. So one just rambles on, quietly, painfully. I grit my teeth and give myself headaches and worry. Thank you, alexander supertramp, cristopher mccandless - you break my heart. One cannot live off hope and beauty, but I still want Alaska. I want Alaska with you. You called for for the first time in 14 months. To tell me it would be Georgia. You coughed your dry little coughs, I could tell you were nervous. But we were so young, and so giddy. And today, nothing. I didn't feel your fingers drumming my skin, I didn't feel your lips on my collarbone. You provoked nothing. And I wished you the best on your new adventure and you told me about Atlanta. And we laughed and said bye, letting you hang up first. When the phone line clicked I knew I would never speak to you again. And I push forward, long strokes, muscles taught in turquoise water, summer incandescent in my veins.

p.s: superbomba's photostream on flickr is gold