Saturday, June 03, 2006

I Smoke Chicha Alone


I was hoping you would come down today. I was hoping to drive home and find your pale-blue Buick parked in the gravel. I was hoping to listen to your message and hear you say I’m coming home. I was hoping to see you sitting atop my stairs in linen pants and a tank-top. I wished dearly to take both off of you. I was hoping to feel your fist on my back. I was hoping to make you mad. I was hoping to take you out to the smoke room down my hill, to sit there for hours blowing circles, mushrooms, dollars.

I was hoping to not miss you anymore. I was hoping to be okay with summer. I was hoping that the rule stating Don’t think about that would be easy to follow. I was hoping to at the least call you and talk all day.

But no. I am out of cell phone minutes so I cannot call. And last night you sent me a picture of the guys you were with. But no, you were only out with a bunch of old high school friends, you crashed a wedding for free alchohol. But no, when I called this morning at 11 you were still in bed. But no, you insist he is just a friend - you gave him cigars for Christmas, he gave you lingerie. But no, I'm not jealous, I understand, he's in the Navy, he's like a brother. Can I ask you something? Is it okay for me to be happy he's shipping out to Iraq soon? But no, of course I was only joking. But no, I understand, you're exhausted. I'll just go now.

1 comment:

Radish King said...

Oh Boyo, you made me cry.