Sometimes I think that you've got a pair of wings slipped underneath your leather jacket and that simpering little smile I've come to memorize is the blunt aftermath of the knowledge that another passing day means the downward dance of another fallen feather. Cause I've come to know you, really know you, and within the vicinity of those four to five years, I've only witnessed your real smile about three times. Maybe twice.
You never knew your parents and I suppose, I never knew my real parents. Two fucking peas in their fucking pod, living on the edge, running from disaster to the disguised shelter of self-destruction, wind whipping through hair like icy fingers, rattling in my ears while you cling to the back of the bike, about to smile that real smile I want to love. I have to wonder, did we drift towards one another because of our imperfections, our flaws, our homage to self-sacrifice and mischief guided by dirty sidewalks and street lamps that refuse to turn on? Are we perfect for each other because we're both so imperfect? Or are we so opposite that this whole thing is perfect?
I don't like to plan things too far ahead. Thinking about the future twists my gut into knots the size of a gorilla's fist and my head feels woozy, like a lead bowling ball shimming down a ladder constructed of gauze and tissue paper. I realize that the efforts of my silent crusade are intended to shock, rather than detach. Eventually, I will rejoin the pretentious society of my father's all-knowing, all-dancing band of stiff yuppies and drones in their tuxedo-straightjackets that laugh too loud and frown too much, their tongues fluent in the language of stocks and bonds. And I will eventually blend into the crowd, leeching onto their vanity, spreading out my arms and my influence like a disease, like a God. Time and wit are my allies and soon Scotty will disintegrate and I will successfully step into the role of Scott Favor, Mr., to you.
I don't want to forget you, Mike, but I might have to. If I want to get ahead. But how could I ever forget? We're two fucking peas in their fucking pod, roaming the streets and causing chaos, kicking up havoc with the click of our boots and the artful flick of our wrists. Best buddy in the world, the best friend I've ever known. Cause why would I ever want to just erase you from my memory, like I'm gently eradicating all the dirty words in the margins of my library book. You're all I've got, buddy and I'm all you've got. We're together, but we're both equally alone and there's something oddly beautiful about that fact. You nearly fell asleep at the diner once, your boyish face making a beeline for the soggy oatmeal and I kicked your foot under the table.
Mike! You stupid fuck, I laughed.
Wake up or you're gonna be bathing in that mush, I said.
And the look you gave me was your real smile, the smile I wish I could remember to capture, cause you never use it quite often enough.
I was sinking when I met you and I still can't sink fast enough. But when we're zipping down the streets, zooming and zigzagging and threading in between the yellow street lines, the sinking could pass for floating. Flying. We don't care about the street lights and we're indestructible, invincible, a couple of wise-cracking, smart-ass hot shots on a dingy motorcycle, hunting down a prey that we can never catch, attempting to quench a hunger that just expands with each inhale, burning with each exhale. But we're floating, we're fucking flying man and you're all I want in that moment and Christ! Who the fuck could complain about a feeling like that?