They told us those stars were rocks we’d never reach. 
You didn’t believe them then, not now, not ever.
Hands on your hips, head tilted defiantly backward.
Just a kiss. 
Out there under the canopy of trees that was our fortress.
Now the rain is hitting the pavement and like the little worms on the sidewalk post flood,
the memories come out of hiding. 
“Watch” you said, 

flipping over the rail and offering me your hand. 
As if my eyes ever left yours. 
As if we weren’t indestructible. 
As if all these years later we both wouldn’t be sabotaging relationships because we never really forgot that night on my cracked front porch when you whispered a word that wasn’t goodbye. 
Summers come around. 
Wander streets, our knobby knees and tans. 
You were the first person to ever point out the faint freckles on my nose. 
Before we met I was a virgin storyteller. 
You gave me a story to tell though, in basements and guitar solos. 
Hunched over leather bound notebooks I spent my meager allowance on, 
shoulders and forearm protective.
“What are you writing about, me?” you asked with a smile.
I ruffled your hair and laughed indignantly, pretending the 
butterflies weren’t devouring me.
“You’re so vain”

I admonished, though your name was on the page, hidden beneath my hand like a secret.
My Father liked your rock and roll ways, and my Mother prayed for your soul under her breath when you drove past music blaring, hand out in a wave. 
You were spray paint and fireworks. You were swing sets and garage bands.
You were vertigo, thunderstorm, pinball and hero. 
You were apologies, secret handshakes, mind reader and tears.
Now you’re gone. 
Gone like my childhood. 
Like my fifth cup of coffee. 
Gone like that goddamn homework assignment I can’t find. 
You’re gone like winter, like the lake house, like smoke in my clothes. You’re gone like every piece I ever wrote and then ripped into shreds. Like every band I was into when I was fourteen, every radio song that I loved and failed to catch the name of, every birthday party.
The place where you show your fingerprints is whenever I try to write about some other boy, some other adventure, some other short story with novel potential. 


  1. Pretty much what my head's saying that my heart will feel. But a small part of my head, sanctioned off by the greyest and blandest useless knowledge and the resulting dust and fluff as it rots and rots though encased in the last bits of ice installed to keep the rest of me from melting. But it's not black enough. Layers have been shed and refrozen again, cracked only to be soldered back with blitzing heat and blasted cold. Don't like it.

    Looks like it's safe to stay locked away for a little while... but when the pressure dies the pain will relight. and blaze all summer long.

    I've missed this, intelligent writing. I hardly get the opportunity anymore and am disappointed to find my sanded, lacquered and polished flow rather halted and dry. That's not to say i've laughed and smiled less, nor cried less for the corresponding matter, i'm sure i've actually lived more. i have indubitably (started having a liking for that word just now, though i think it would feel rounder and better without the t).

    However, the duty of record has fallen on dear memory and is not aided much by any more physical representation or irrepressive force (which spell check knows not to be a word as it does follow the fact that memory is actually quite repressive). So the extra living i have been doing has not been more or less lost than it always is, it's just become harder to remember and, therefore, treated allthemore precious. And perhaps it is.

    Certainly, my living has not reached the peak of preciousness but, overall, the rate of the increase of preciousness in my daily living has accelerated. This i think, is helped along by the strengthened undercurrents of joy which i have let myself sink into a little more. 2 cor 6, v 10 especially, has been in my reading recently and... may become some of the dearest words my sure and firm Foundation instills, hopefully until it becomes immutable truth and my understanding of love becomes purer and clearer. Then i will better share and give the light by which all beauty is seen for what it is.

    I apologize for the longevity of this comment, though it seems an oxymoron to do so. Instead i apologize for the time you no longer have (and hope i don't come across as arrogant... though everyone who says that always does). May your eyes grow brighter everyday as light grows in you and may your heart expand as it receives and gives more and deeper love.

  2. I'll keep it short. This was pretty amazing and I really liked it.
    I hope you're still well and stuff.

  3. Beautifully written. Achingly honest. I don't have much to add to what has already been written and commented on. But this hurt to read...because soon I won't be walking down the real sidewalk anymore, I'll just have the worms and rain to deal with, the road and trees left behind.

  4. I can't write anything to tell you that your metaphors and analogies are the most original. they give so much more meaning because they are fresh. they are the first flavor of a white tic tac, which i happen to believe is marshmallow, just for one second they are marsh mello, and after that, plain old mint. but the marshmellow is surprising and the best part. Can't spell it the same twice ;)


"Sometimes the world seems like a big hole. You spend all your life shouting down it and all you hear are echoes of some idiot yelling nonsense down a hole"
_Adam Duritz

I love hearing things that aren't my own pathetic echoes.