Monday, April 18, 2011

it is monday night.

Yesterday we sat in the park in the sun in the grass and watched Jake skate. It's still cold so I have a purple scarf draped around my neck. We rode bikes to the park and the wind created a cape of my jacket. Each time I took a curve I wanted to close my eyes and when I could feel myself going faster, I felt infinite.

Remember the time we were up in my room and you were on top? Your hand up my shirt and our eyes closed in the lamplight underneath a ceiling full of stars. And now it has been ten years and you have children and a scary wife and I haven't spoken to you since, well, you talked about having these dreams about where you would be. And it wasn't there.

We are all getting old, fat, and slow.

I remember the first time we had sex. The first time ever. In your bed with the record player going. The headlights of cars passing by and casting short-lived shadows over everything. I think I see your face sometimes. In that moment.


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