skipping in the player

A lot of what they had left of one another
would skip in the player for years
blaring every word
of songs that remembered when

and better yet
where.

she climbed inside her favorite pair of denim jeans.
the ones that felt like the beach on a mid- 80's day.
(that she used to wear with her St. Elizabeth's sweatshirt as some homage to Dead Poets Society…)
it can still smell like home although it's been washed 1279 times.
and when she reaches down deep to tuck in her pockets,
she remembers what the tips of her fingers kiss.

-a torn envelope, folded and soft from how long itd been snuck away,
waiting for tears to well and run-
' eggs, French bread, berries, oranges for juicing, lime…'


Look. He's never going to look at the world the same.
And she? She's never going to write the same.
And he will always be code, for peace. And she will always be code for liberation…
and they will always be one anothers acceptance.

But they are all grown now.
She will be published again…
and when she writes for him, he will be able to find himself in every word she crafted for the betterment of his thinking,

or feeling.

He has always known who he is to her.
They have mouths that seek one anther out…
and ears that listen for the pitch of the other on busy city streets…
and hearts that run away in the race of knowing they are known.

Have you ever been REALLY known?

He knows her.


Better than anyone.


Funny- in 1995, he told her he didn't want to know her better than anyone.
I think it was just his taking for granted she would always be there.
Good food, laughs-
damn they laugh-
lots of love and the stories?
they have never not been a part of the others story.

But the truth is, you have to be true to what you are.
We all do.

Sometimes what you are


is over.

She saved the grocery list slipped into the corner of a picture frame.
Remembered the last time he kissed her face.
Cried for longer than a friend should have to…

and decided to let go.


Sometimes letting someone go while its still so good is the best way to do it.

Love waits.

Maybe not romantic love, so much.

But a friend that's your brother- that love waits. It grows.

It remembers only the best with time
and it forgives the worst
as it understands the paces that,
arm in arm,
delivered us to here.
And of course the way they smell when you hug them-
it never leaves.

ever.