Last night I lie in my bed and watch a ton of depressing movies about love. You know those soppy teenage love-you-forever-and-ever films that never show you the gist of what it is to really care about another person, only that they would do anything for you even after they've screwed up real bad. Only the falling in love part and never what comes after.
That myth of love that we're sold, it's so hard to believe that it exists anymore, not for anyone over the age of 16. Still I read that Frank Ohara poem, you know, and I remembered what it was like to hold his hand that night it rained and we jumped into the fountain, and that time he saved my life, and when he went down on me. And suddenly I felt so goddam alone, even though the two dogs were lying next to me in the bed infecting me with fleas and mange and all manner of unspeakable horrors. I had achieved inner pieces.
To look at me you'd never guess I miss the clammy way his hands feel when I held them, the smell of sweat and motor oil and the way his crusty stubble scratched the back of my neck. And I don't. I miss the tangible memory of it. I miss deluding myself that the world is perfect. Because for a little while it was.
I don't care what you think, we did change the world. Thunder roared louder and lightning struck twice, three times in the same place.
But that was before rent and bills, before work and routine and before sameness made words so so blunt that it became impossible to cut into the silence that was weaving itself around us until we were completely engulfed in its cocoon.
That was years ago. Lifetimes ago. But I read that Frank Ohara poem and I go out and buy an RC cola.
Fucking product placements.
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