Take me back to the song :: SOTD


Keep Art Alive :: Art by Michael Shapcott

Spending all of my damn time,
leaving all the weight behind you.”

All the time spent renovating my tattered heart, ego evolving into the first light of evening, in a new town, a new space, a new version of who I have become. There are only a few people I would ever wish to return to, only a spare one or two that I would want to tangle myself up in again, wondering why I ever did let go, the last time, the first time. Change burns a hole in the center of my stomach, need and want and wistful wishes jingling about just under my skin, like change in the pocket of my younger self as I wandered into the corner pizza place in the hot hot heat of late Summer; the one with the extra large soda pops and a table top Ms. Pac Man game, and me, with handfuls of quarters and so much time to waste.

I heard someone say today that August is just like one long Sunday. That it is the cusp of the end of Summer, the start of things like school times and shorter days, and the end of careless freedom. August as a wave goodbye, a don’t you forget about me, a run girl run as fast as you can or you might miss it. I have always been so damn good at running, but what do I miss? Is it a what or a who, a him or a her? I told you I was not looking for a rescue, that I had my own strong arms and storybook endings, but sometimes I close my eyes and wish you would go ahead and come here to save me. The sound of your voice, I still hear it click-click-clicking in my photographic memory, snapshot senses lighting up and turning into pin-prickled skin and a dance of desire between my legs. It was always this way, your words making a wandering gypsy girl wet.

No one sees that side though. They make their half-ass, formulaic assumptions, as if I am some kind of meta version of six different side-by-side story-lines. They cast me as the side-kick extraordinaire, with a quick witted gasp and gag, a comic foil with wide eyes and baby making hips. I was never pretty enough for the center stage lens flare, nor my Orange County area code, or the attentions of boys who leaned in the hallways. Later though, better men, music men, would pen songs in lieu of promise rings and letter jackets, and I would take them, play them, sing them, and rock them in my own way. Skinny girls never screw as good as we do, I would say. I would shake them like a natural disaster, make them fall at my feet while I looked off in the distance, longing to be with her. I still can recall the taste of mint lemonade on her tongue, the Atlanta heat of her breath on bare skin, and the way we mocked at all of them together, quietly leaning closer, breaking every barrier reef of being misunderstood.

I always said I loved a long, hot Sunday afternoon.

Take me back,
take, take, take me back to the song,
how it used to go.”

Don’t Save Me :: Haim

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