Yet tonight, at the shore, with Seth and Gabriella, Rachel, Frank - my heart aches. All of us perched precariously preoccupied atop the highest dune in sight, Seth plays his guitar and I listen to them sing, not daring to introduce my crackle-quiet-octave-too-low croon of vocals. They spit their song and I smile and take pictures of them, the sunset, equal in beauty, equal in splendor, natural mystery of points coming together. My heart aches for Tristan (always first and foremost, cliche of cliches), Shae, Miles. Some big strong man arms to encircle my tiny woman-form, assure me there is still safety in my slap-jaw-bruised-eye socket world.
In Thompkins Square the night earlier, hot, sweaty dripping dropping, drip-drop clank PLUNK slide off your forehead heat, I feel nothing, elated, light floating as though nothing in the world exists except the moment a butterfly lands on Hillary's shoulder. We are nothing but a bunch of artists, painters, drawers, illustrators, tired hungry visuals, clinging to each other in a sea of grass and dirt. A sea of crust-punk runaways with rich homes to return to when they tire of their squatter-life, a sea of young lovers, a sea of New York hopefuls crowded together on a mound of earth. And we are here, and we are part of it, and again the city pumps my heart better, more efficiently than slack-jawed life itself.
I keep my smile deep, sincere, dimples and all (perpetually reminded just how charming they are, these defaults in the muscle of my cheeks, these signs of weak construction); I think of Tristan. His smile. His dimple deep, foreboding, shadow-casting in the fleshy depths of the cheek Kirsten now kisses. A cheek, cheekbone I once lavished with butterflies. His deep grin, smile so charismatic as to charm a gargoyle to quickened life.
Not even the shore will take him away. He is in every sunset, every shine of light through clouds (God-Light in my misguided uninformed Catholic youth), in every shadow on water, he IS the shadow on the ocean, in the depths, the sickly green-brown of the water here, his eyes a be-gemmed version of it.
In Thompkins Square the night earlier, hot, sweaty dripping dropping, drip-drop clank PLUNK slide off your forehead heat, I feel nothing, elated, light floating as though nothing in the world exists except the moment a butterfly lands on Hillary's shoulder. We are nothing but a bunch of artists, painters, drawers, illustrators, tired hungry visuals, clinging to each other in a sea of grass and dirt. A sea of crust-punk runaways with rich homes to return to when they tire of their squatter-life, a sea of young lovers, a sea of New York hopefuls crowded together on a mound of earth. And we are here, and we are part of it, and again the city pumps my heart better, more efficiently than slack-jawed life itself.
I keep my smile deep, sincere, dimples and all (perpetually reminded just how charming they are, these defaults in the muscle of my cheeks, these signs of weak construction); I think of Tristan. His smile. His dimple deep, foreboding, shadow-casting in the fleshy depths of the cheek Kirsten now kisses. A cheek, cheekbone I once lavished with butterflies. His deep grin, smile so charismatic as to charm a gargoyle to quickened life.
Not even the shore will take him away. He is in every sunset, every shine of light through clouds (God-Light in my misguided uninformed Catholic youth), in every shadow on water, he IS the shadow on the ocean, in the depths, the sickly green-brown of the water here, his eyes a be-gemmed version of it.
