Looking back now I can taste February like it was last week.
The acrid flavor of winter rises in my throat and miles and millennia have passed away. These hallways haunted with dreams and failures. What a small corner of the world for such epic nonsense and leaving. The place is ripe with leaving and crawling with the bedbugs of change.
This was never forever. But we settled against our better judgement and started taking up the notion of home.Wherever we hung out hearts. Strung out like laundry in the alleyways. Pinched and soggy, flapping heavily against a meager breeze. All around the cards are falling like leaves of September.
Now for the disbanding. Now for the disarming. Now starts the countdown. The annihilation of the camp. There will be nothing left but an empty fire pit and a lost group of ribbons tangled in a tree limb. Plastic bag in the wind.
We will all go from here and when we've nailed our hearts to somebody elses wall we'll look at the shadow of a beer can and weep for what we couldn't keep and where we couldn't stay.
Perfume of cigarette smoke and lashes of ashes.
Sets of dirty hands around the last supper table- All the white linens gone grey. I will miss you. Many moons from now I will remember how our voices bounced off the bricks, how the music was always too loud and the dirty dishes sat on the kitchen floor with mice running over them. How there was always piss on the seat and never any toilet paper and the angry look written in Spanish on the cleaning lady's face.
I will remember the tags on your walls, and the fingerprints everywhere, and the dirt. The smell of weed smoke and stale liquor, spoiled milk and bleach. Old mildew. Bad raves, fairydust, drugs and pipes. Flip flops in the shower with no curtain. Flies in the hallways. Hot plates on fire. I will remember the hungry nights, and the bellies full of wanting, and the eyes full of dollar signs and all the endlessly empty pockets.
Pale light up on the morning-after sleepless night tableau. Hipster eyes adjusting to the sun, Nosferatu rubs the hangover from his temples and walks his pit bull up to the corner bodega so he can buy some smokes. This is the future and everyone wears Elvis Costello frames and rides their grandmothers bicycle with no brakes. Doughnuts are vegan. Pizza is free. PBR has replaced the water in the East River. Williamsburg has swallowed all of Brooklyn. And we're all moving out.
I get to weeping- thinking about everything left behind. You and me and the Mac truck. Rusting, rusting, rusting, and needing proof that we existed. Ancient History. That there was purpose and meaning.
Or maybe not...
You know that monster on the roof? Well he's lying in a pile; King of the Meserole skyline, now dismantled and nothing but splinters and kindling. Last night we sat waiting for the slow burn in your absence and he gave me good advice. He said, "Somedays you exist, Kid, and then maybe one day, you don't anymore... But we were here."
