Four Letter Words

08 March, 2004 12:47 a.m.

I carved our names on the table with my keys, thought about the girls that carve boys names into their flesh and call it anything more than decoration. "Phoebe loves Jordan" is a mantra now, not a declaration.

This friend and I, we were up late, and talking about this girl who is a serial lover of awful men, and I said, "We don't look like that, do I?"

And then I realized that it's not the look that matters, but the touch, and the feel, and the orthodontic smile and the discussions that leave my skin raw and electric for days. We could walk crooked for miles as long as what's comical is cosmic. Togetherness, that is.

I know who I want. Now all we have to do is figure out how to render what we want, from our galaxies and asteroids and discordant b flats.

And yes, that was me sprawled across the stairs, if you have to know. And yes, I was upset for a moment, but here's what you didn't know: when they sang "happy birthday," we fell together, laughing about cakes and cocks, soggy hysteria and deep breaths of relief. We rebuilt our world from ceramics and old songs, and we're working on it, we're working on it.

And if you have anything to say about that you can go fuck yourself in the ass.

previous next

twice sixteen - 14 January, 2016
Hey--what's going on? - 11 April, 2008
I wasn't cool - 30 July, 2004
something you wouldn't believe if you saw it. - 11 May, 2004
Going to 17th and U - 27 April, 2004

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