Eleven Syllable Escape.
July 2, 2009
Passing you by – your feet sinking deep into downtown pavement, eyes fixed to shell toed shoes counting careful steps – I barely recognize you.
Thin hair drops in limp lines from scalp to shoulder, spreading greys steal strawberry shine from lengthy locks, locks which used to compete with the sun. Your mouth is exploited by sad lines, deep imprinted tears in sallow skin dyed the color of nicotine. Matte mouse eyes skitter about tired lids, the whites yellow, the yellow fissured with splinters of bloodshot stress.
You’ve widened since I saw you last, hips a spill of squishy surplus, button and jeans fighting to stay together.
Turning, wizened fingers wrapped in paper thin skin reaching for my shoulder, your mouth a cracked red raw O, you say: hullo, girl. How’s your pretty life?
A sideswept chasse and I miss your grip, my hesitant smile a defensive apology for your attempted touch.
Again, you say: how’s your pretty life?
I scrunch my eyes, look you over, try to find the you I knew way back when you used to smile and shine, your packaging still smooth and store-front sexy, your laugh like rushing water, gurgling, bubbling.
Good, happy: I say.
Fidgeting hands smooth a hand-knit tunic over threadbare jeans as you chuckle, the sound of desperation like wheezing sand paper. Yeah, you say. Me too.
You flick a fired butt, the ember grazing paper skin – a quick ignition close to setting you aflame, your widened rack a torch.
Awkward pause, a beat too long, and I think of all the things I’d like to say:
Remember when we sat up all night and laughed until the moonlight cracked to let the dawn in?
Remember sitting on the kitchen floor in the first apartment we shared, eating spaghetti off one green cracked plate, red sauce splashing linoleum only we were in charge of cleaning?
Remember the friends, the drinks, the parties, the fun, the fun, the fun – the fun that poured so easily out of you, the unstoppable, beautiful fun?
Standing, your shoulders a horse shoe slump, I cannot find the you I knew way back when; the hardened turtle shell is hiding the you who used to be and so I don’t say the things I’d like, but instead say:
Great. Okay, then. Was nice to see you. Take care!
Faux enthusiasm, an eleven syllable escape and you’re gone from my memory again.
xoxo
M.L. H’art
