Life is a long time grieving, especially the first time. The second time you try, and it’s all right, there’s less tears; it’s a reunion you never thought would happen. Then the call comes back: the hard line in the head that said
don’t kiss, don’t dance, don’t do that. And even drinking is easier, somehow, like each sip was watered down with berries and pills and ice. You never dreamed it would be so easy. But this is your second time around,
and you’re used to feeling used, and you want to see the people you thought were gone for good, and so you lean toward the fat neck beside you, and you say kiss me darling, I’m back for you, and you alone, and the trees
aren’t sad, are they? The air is a calm mourner, you say; it doesn't need a wake to drink at. It doesn't need friends or family. You're like the wind, you think. You don't need a friend. You don't need another life. And so it ends.
Labels: Spencer Gordon