|
2002-10-06 || 1:20 p.m. || i can't keep track of my favorites anymore. i think because i don't have you around to list them for me. || weekends: cuffed pants and pre-cut sandwiches. blue icees and memorized mixed tapes. my favorite song on repeat so we could get the harmony right. sand in our hair. flowers in our shoes. highway excursions: the road studded with barns and haunted hills and off-ramps, places still containing heat from the times we spent there years ago. the re-telling of stories that become our own, exchanged and written on our insides to surface on skin faintly as bruises and roadmaps. i have never lived in petaluma but know what the church by the post office looks like at night. he's never trawled pacific coast highway in a maroon cadillac but can sing the song i used to sing when scared driving in heavy fog. i retell stories all the time. sometimes it's the only way i can talk. he never stopped me. he never cut me off with a 'yeah yeah yeah' or a hurried ending. he listened, both hands on the steering wheel, nodding at the familiar parts, and inhaled the words he didn't know by heart yet. let them affix to his insides. let the details bloom and grow, the tendrils hardening and reaching out. tandem tendrils. communal arteries. we are connected that way, heart to heart, story to story, and sometimes when i put my hand to my heart and think of it, his hand lifts too, five hundred miles away. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |