i used to know you when we were young / you were in all my dreams / we sat together in period one / fridays at eight fifteen.
x
Every now and again, he'll close his amber eyes and rest his head on the wooden floor, body lying prostrate with pen and paper and crumbled up notes scattered around him like a small defeated army, as he configures characters and creations in his cocktail ridden mind. It helps, not moving, remembering how to breathe as his fingers twitch, itching to spill something onto paper. Something worthwhile, something that she will pick up, stain with bitter coffee, curse with jaded cerulean eyes, and sift into the lines of her ivory skin.
He writes so that he doesn't forget.
x
Every now and again, she'll close her azure eyes and rest her head on the carpeted floor of the current hotel room where she is residing, body lying spread eagle with pencil and legal pads and multiple wound tapes littered in between her limbs like a tiny battlefield that has yet to be conquered. It doesn't help her though, lying there, becoming dormant as her mind races towards places and people and all the stuff that she feels she is missing out on as she hoofs from Chicago to San Fran to Austin. She sometimes slowly dances a hand down the spine of the dozen or so books that she lugs from here to there and recalls how easy it is to escape.
She reads so that she can forget.
x
Every now and again, he'll remember what she was like at seventeen. She had the easiest way of tugging on his heart strings like she was his puppet master, instructing his every deliberately careful move. Her cocoa locks were in neat curtains on her porcelain, rose stung cheeks. He kind of thought she would shatter, the first time he placed a hand on her; she just looked so damn fragile and beautiful that it made him tread lightly.
If he ever writes a fairytale, she will be the princess. She already was [is]. Only this time, he will save her. Not shatter her into a million pieces that can never be put back together.
x
Every now and again, she'll remember what he was like at seventeen. He had the simplest way of yanking on her heart strings like a covert puppeteer, tracing her fancy footwork. His barbs of raven waves flying out wildly against his rough olive skin with a slight sneer on his tart mouth. With all that she knew of the world, with its thousands of corners, she still has yet to meet someone so incredibly foreign and extraneous as him. Truly, he seemed like Salinger or Kerouac had spit him off of a page and dropped him in her small town petri dish. But she didn't mind it one bit.
If she ever reads a fairytale, he will be the boy that she runs away with. He already was [is]. Only this time, she will go. Not stand with her own two feet rooted to the floor and her heart already out the door.
x
Every now and again, he'll pretend that she runs away with him. They stop at all the bookshops on their route, writing their own two cents in the margins, and eat ice cream in cones and sleep with their legs and arms all a tangle in the backseat of his car until Luke and Lorelai track them down and send their little journey packing. [At least that is what he writes.]
Every now and again, she'll pretend that he saves her. They go to prom with Lane and Dave and eat cake and he complains about the dancing even though he holds her waist with more strength than necessary and he writes her letters and calls and says that 22.8 miles is nothing and proves it by showing up on her doorstep every other night that autumn, winter, spring, summer. [At least that is what she reads.]
x
and i will wait for you / just as long as i need to / and if you ever get back to hackensack / i'll be here for you.