2003-04-04 || 10:21 a.m.

|| orange crushes ||

i love how the old old crushes turn into something like favorite worn out t-shirts in my memory, all colorful in that reincarnated faded out fuzzy way, all sentimental slogans and soft like down. we could play a game of where are they now?: walking down streets in seattle, shoulders hunched in a pea coat under drizzly gray skies (his voice soft and smiling at the corners, maybe reciting baby names or home loan rates); driving along pacific coast highway in the same vw bus, stopping at the chainlink fence above salt creek to see if the waves are glassy or blown out (tiger sharks and sports bars, a cassette tape of ska circa 1993 hidden somewhere under the driver's seat); thinking in architectural phrases and romancing ladies in los angeles, eternally small, clothed handsomely in a tiny brown suit that brings out his eyes like root beer candies, like winter trees and beer bottle glass.

i'll place you in art class, in libraries and cafeterias (like dioramas dimly lit with a 40-watt bulb, spider webs hedging the corners and construction paper backgrounds fading from sunlight). your names are catalogued with stars and planets, with the classifications of insects, with being young and bashful and heartsick.

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