harold weathervein

you were laying perpendicular to the ground, head first, hair hanging precariously close to the carpet below. i remember it more clearly than i really ever wished to: the way you'd look at me, then at the accidentally draping fabric that made up the interior of my car, then back to me. i'd blush every time you'd look at me, and i fully admitted it, each time; there was no use hiding candy-apple-red cheeks. cursive lyrics danced from my speakers. we liked this most: driving at night when the road was ours and ours alone, listening to music that reminded us of our own self-inflicted teenage angst (if at first you don't succeed/you gotta recreate your misery/'cause we all know art is hard/young artists have gotta starve/try and fail, and try again/the comforts of repetition/keep churning out those hits/'til it's all the same old shit) and talking to each other as if our words were being written down in a leather-bound journal as we spoke.

yeah, i had every intention of leaning over that night our feet hung off the ledge of my roof. i had every intention of wrapping you in my arms. i had every intention of you wrapping me in yours. le chevalet et la palette hangs above your head in the blue backdrop, but we can only feel it is there... it is not to be seen. de lacaille could have pointed out for you, but you chose me instead. asked me what kind of paintbrushes you should use and what type of paint and what colors and..

i picked out a vibrant blue. you knew blue was my favorite color. (hercules peeks out from behind the golden draperies. with a raised eyebrow, he asks if i have seen pegasus. no - hercules - i have not.) you gotta sink to swim, so we jumped off that ledge. fully clothed. broke a couple bones, nothing major, just something to pass the time away. when i told them they'd say i was fucked in the head for what i did with you. for the time i spent and the minuscule trouble we got ourselves into. they didn't understand that broken bones meant nothing more than battle scars. us against the world. us against us. you'd write it with your paintbrushes, i'd write it with my fingers dug deep in the clay. make something to put on the top shelf of your two-story apartment downtown. another to stow away in your bottom drawer.

[in the smoky bar, we sat in the back where the floor was raised slightly - they assumed that those in the back would need a little lift to see past the crowd. the boy in the band had gritty, stringy hair that fell all around his face, contained only by a makeshift bandanna tied to his forehead. (my name is driftwood.) his arms were moving at an alarmingly fast rate for my mind at that point. the phenomenon was coming from his drum set as he beat so precisely, each time. forget the guitarists - they were all played out, anyway. forget the lead - her voice cracked every time she made eye contact with me (i'm still sorry. i didn't mean to steal the heart that once belonged to you). bloody murdered. redrum. redrum. danger will robinson.]

big brother is coming. radar and hawkeye and pierce. it's only a flesh wound... the tape deck was broken so we loaded your gun and shot into the sky for effect. made a pretty noise. crack, snap, pop - we hit phoenix in the wing. pyxis guides home. pegasus is hiding behind ursa major - hercules is still looking.

you - you do not guide home. you do not provide any solitary confinement for my ever-wandering mind. you... you torture me. with every smile. i think what i should not think and i tell you so each time and it is as if i can feel my feet being pulled out from underneath me;


(it's almost time for sleep.)