The Way You Choose To Write It
(by me)

The two of us crossed the bridge that early morning;
arm in arm, cheek to cheek,
our hair tangling into each others.
We had to hold each other up to keep walking,
too many chemicals spinning in our heads,
and the music still ringing over and over in our ears.
maybe we should have been in bed,
for one reason or another,
but here we were,

You were my catastrophe, my derring-do,
my grand rebellion a few years late.
and what was I to you?
Just another girl tied to your words,
your made-up names,
your slurred murmurs and soft lips.
I do not think I really want to know,
even now,
years later.

We saw the tunnel ahead, dark and decayed,
and we kept walking on,
into all the damp nothing,
still holding close.
You told me that trains came through,
how we would only know when it was too late,
and yet we kept walking.
I felt my head sting,
my eyes blur,
I wanted to fall onto my knees,
or into your arms,
either one (both).

The sky lights led us to the end,
the air clearing,
our breath making marks in the space between us,
blending into each other,
and into the night.
We split apart,
lifted our legs and arms,
began the climb to the top of the tunnel,
to this new destination.
I scraped my knee,
my left elbow,
and my face was so damn dirty,
but you still said I was so beautiful,
right then.

The trip up was the hardest of them all,
out of breath, sore,
but the payoff was lying side by side,
watching the sky change into a million different
over a just-woken city.
I could feel your stutters on my skin,
our lips barely touching,
my whole existence lighting up at each touch,
at us.

A lifetime later I was asked questions,
one of those late night conversations we all have,
drunk on too much coffee and way too early morning hours.
and that was the night I answered with,
my most intimate,
the one that I still shake with.
everyone else had more skin,
bodies entwined in public places,
cheap motel rooms,
high school gyms.
but this was it for me,
the big passion,
that night.

They laughed at me,
seeing me as more of something, or less,
than what they imagined.
Times like these you realize how little people really
about who we really are.
How this life is what we decide it to be,
our sleepy dreamlike perceptions,
the way we choose to write the tale,
or silence it.

I’ll Keep It With Mine :: Nico

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