I wanted between seven and twelve words. These, when strung together in bright colors, music playfully rattling the walls, the 70's era lime green paper ready to snap back
...oh the idea, "to start over"...
would serve as a welcome banner, a congratulations, somehow, a bon voyage.
Night was the worst for it. The old CD playing ad infinitum, choking us on liquor between meandering lapses in conversation. Already, I didn't know her. My body was transforming, arriving in a new place with a new relationship to other bodies. I still, of course, thought about the scandal, morbidly, carefully, going over the details like a child learning his spelling words. I thought now maybe the whole business would burn itself out. Right then. Right there.
Just like that...
For me, there was still (and always) to be a thickening satisfaction over even the slightest victory against this vague "darkness". The childhood fear--like the rest of the mythology--still held onto the persuasive tongue. She suggested something to toast, something unrelated to my triumph. I was polite but quietly creating the space in which her discomfort could cause a bit of an itch, her consciousness returning, replaying worn vinyl, or warbling cassette.
Something to mull over.
I might trump the night, after all, trick the stars and the Buddha-white belly of the rising full moon and keep myself ((laughing)/(crying)) well into morning. There, us, the penetration of sunrise, the golden spears that cut the land: amber, honey, Riesling. Everything dilated differently when the sunglasses cracked a bit.
But, there was still the grand magic as your eyes adjust, teaching you everything you are.
