Snapshots

How quickly they yellow and fade with time. How neatly they become conglomerates of better, brighter, warmer times. How easily they are altered and shifted about. How hard they are to discard.

A train in the summer blaring by in humid pressed-together heat. Sticky sweaty hands pressed against the oncoming blare of sound and glare of light. We stood stalk still and blew and blew and blew in that wind.

A bean bag chair big enough for two people. It was black and you had your back to me while I made your roommates macaroni and cheese — shit I used to, in those days eat.

Crying, always someone crying.
In a living room past three in the morning.
In a shower behind a public beach we didn’t camp at.
In a room, alone at night staring out at Orion’s belt and wishing for things no way could exist.
In a bathroom stall to the sounds of other people pissing.
In a booth in the kind-of isolated corner of a pizza parlor.
In the closet underneath the stairs in the dark in the middle of a winter day.
In the middle bench seat of a blue van.
In a kitchen, and a kitchen, and a kitchen, and a kitchen, and a kitchen, and a kitchen.
So many goddamn kitchens.

I detach so easily, not because I had to. But because I wanted to. I still do. I hold my arms open to the sun and the wind blows through the holes punched in my gut and my non-existent soul and because I can just float away — all of this is okay with me.

I don’t need anything but to know I can always escape.
Obrigato Kopia y Mokutan.
You’ve shed, at least, that much light together.
And well fucking done.

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