I love road trips in that you can't do much but ponder and reflect en route to the destination.
I did that last weekend.
I'll do that again this weekend, albeit a different mode and in a different direction.
I miss the line of your eyebrows.
I miss how your eyes would widen slightly, and a smile would spread across your face when something was askew. I loved the seriousness of your face. Even when you were mad at me, I wanted to laugh (and sometimes I would and you would get even more mad) because I find your face so loveable.
Little ALF laugh chasing your cat around with a toothbrush.
The other night I went to meet a friend at a bear bar so that he could drink and I could eat limes.
I had a person ask me if I'm trying to get over someone when I wasn't responding to their flirtations. In that moment I had this memory of me and you starting to make out in my car close to one of your favorite bars and you sliding all over my seats because I had just cleaned them and that McGuire's shit is slippery. You laughed at me about it. I laughed, too. I smiled and laughed that little laugh that is almost a cough that happens at memory. The person asked again, but I just held their eyes and said nothing.
If they have to ask, they should already know that nothing is going to happen.
I'm going to leave you with a poem by Anne Sexton that has taught me something different each time I have read it, the majority of my life.
be well; be loved,
k.
[title: Last Chance for a Slow Dance is a Fugazi song title]
[image: Fleurs (1994) Edouard BOUBAT (1923-1999) ]
Admonitions to a Special Person (A. Sexton)
Watch out for power,
for its avalanche can bury you,
snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.
Watch out for hate,
it can open its mouth and you'll fling yourself out
to eat off your leg, an instant leper.
Watch out for friends,
because when you betray them,
as you will,
they will bury their heads in the toilet
and flush themselves away.
Watch out for intellect,
because it knows so much it knows nothing
and leaves you hanging upside down,
mouthing knowledge as your heart
falls out of your mouth.
Watch out for games, the actor's part,
the speech planned, known, given,
for they will give you away
and you will stand like a naked little boy,
pissing on your own child-bed.
Watch out for love
(unless it is true,
and every part of you says yes including the toes) ,
it will wrap you up like a mummy,
and your scream won't be heard
and none of your running will end.
Love? Be it man. Be it woman.
It must be a wave you want to glide in on,
give your body to it, give your laugh to it,
give, when the gravelly sand takes you,
your tears to the land. To love another is something
like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall
into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
Special person,
if I were you I'd pay no attention
to admonitions from me,
made somewhat out of your words
and somewhat out of mine.
A collaboration.
I do not believe a word I have said,
except some, except I think of you like a young tree
with pasted-on leaves and know you'll root
and the real green thing will come.
Let go. Let go.
Oh special person,
possible leaves,
this typewriter likes you on the way to them,
but wants to break crystal glasses
in celebration,
for you,
when the dark crust is thrown off
and you float all around
like a happened balloon.
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