10.08.04 - 7:22 am
our love is like the border between greece and albania.

Next Friday night
we will sit outside in
the bite of fall
chill
on the curb in
the church parking lot
behind my house with drinks
and pretend
we've always been this way.

We'll pretend
that you,
with your piercing eyes and
cool water smell
that lingered
on my pillows last
time you
were here, and I, with
nothing to offer you that
she cannot,
we'll pretend we never
happened.

And we
will drink and think of
things we did and lie to
each
other about
how we feel because
it doesn't matter now,
the time
when we could have changed this
is gone.

There is
beauty in this loss,
some tragic perfection
in our dead romance.

Next Friday night
I will
drink until I forget the
other boys I
thought I loved
then, I will drink until
only you remain.
And in
that brief second that
I am caught in
your glance I will be bound
up in your smile.

Only someone so perfect
as you could have killed me.

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as autobiographical as this one sounds, it's really not. i'm writing a film and it's from the point of view of one of the characters. oh, and the title is lifted from the Mountain Goats song "International Small Arms Traffic Blues". If you don't have a Mountain Goats record, go buy one now. Buy "Tallahassee" if you can find it, it's incredible.

.drink up baby, look at the stars. // .i'll kiss you again, between the bars.