25 May 2001 ~ A ribbon at a time...

"I'll tell you how the sun rose, a ribbon at a time..." --Emily Dickinson

Sometimes, I'm not quite sure of where you are. Most times, I'm not even a hundred percent sure you're alive. Your name doesn't come up so frequently in conversation, which is probably a good thing, because there's simply too much explaining to do, and it's not really worth it, as nobody really understands anyway. I don't think of you so often when I'm in "our" old places. They've all changed; not beyond recognition, but they've changed to a point that's beyond your energies. I remember you, I remember the things you used to say to me, I remember the things we used to do, but they're just words now, mostly. As impersonal as the love letters I wrote you, all of which are sitting here in my desk-drawer; I've reread them thousands of times, wishing I hadn't said this, wishing I hadn't given that one to you, wishing they'd spontaneously combust and stop tormenting me... They don't torment me any longer. What's said and done is said and done, and they're really just words on paper -- flat and lifeless. Maybe that's why you left them here for me.

It's hard to retain any of the essence in my memories of you. Sometimes I think the only way I know you're alive is when I hear your words coming out of my mouth... The other day, when I was walking home from work, I encountered five little freaky-kids playing hacky-sack on Main Street. A girl with long blonde hair and pink glasses, wearing freaky punk clothes and hanging out with a pair of mohawk-boys yelled, "hey! hey you! You wanna play!?" I gave her a smile, looked across the street at my apartment, and waved, "hey, maybe later... have a nice day!"

Four years ago, I would have been that girl. Four years ago, you would have been the one walking home from work, a little tired, maybe planning on taking a little nap and showering before going off to work someplace else... Sometimes I think you've been the only "normal" adult -- ie, not mentally ill, not super mean, not totally immature -- I've ever had as an influence on my life. I guess it's no wonder I sometimes find myself wandering your paths. Sometimes, knowing I've found these niches and affectionately, embarrassingly, taken them over like a loving younger sister, is the only way I've been able to ward off time and distance...

But sometimes, in the mornings, things begin to glow again, and the memories have meaning again... A sort of deja vu, I suppose...

Mornings were always yours.

It's quarter of eight in the morning, and I've still got this foggy, sleepy feeling... The air is chilly and humid... There's a sound of diesel engines humming outside my window... And inexplicably, the smell of Pantene and exhaust and... espresso? ...fills the inside of my nose.

If I donned some jeans and walked downtown and stood at the corner of Hawley and Court Streets, under the big bank-clock, I wonder if it's still quiet enough downtown to hear the "click" of the numbers changing on the time... When I used to come downtown and found you were still asleep, I used to walk up past there, explore a little, all the while imagining you sleeping, imagining you waking up, imagining the two of us having some little adventure... I used to walk across the Riverside Bridge, stare into the water, and imagine you making love to me... In retrospect, I'm not sure I exactly knew what that meant. But it didn't much matter, because I was seventeen and I was madly in love with you, and it was morning, and everything was cast in an eerie grey light... My every thought was of you...

In the mornings, I remember lying in bed with you, touching your face, damp from the humid air, playing with your hair, watching your eyes open and let loose this burst of blue sunrise. In the mornings, everything was so clean and untainted... By eleven or so, you'd be at work, or one of us had run into one of our friends and gone our separate ways, but in the mornings, I could smell you on your pillow, I could lie next to you, not caring what happened for the rest of my life, not worrying about a thing in the world, just explosively happy and a little too sleepy to think of anything but you. I could breathe in your shaving cream and run one finger along the top of your boxers, not knowing exactly what to do next... I could rest my hand in yours, lay my head on your shoulder, and all the words of a thousand love letters would just go blank in my head...

I'd bring over a little dish of blackberries, and eat them slowly on your futon while you ran your shower... I'd kiss you when you stepped out, and you'd kiss me back, and little waves of blackberry juice ran through my veins... And I'd want... I didn't know quite what it was I wanted, but I think you knew... You were man enough to wait until I'd figured it out for myself...

"Morning smiles like the face of a newborn child... innocent, unknowing..." --Sarah McLachlan

I always waited until nobody was around before I went up the steps to your apartment. It wasn't that I was embarrassed -- far from it -- or that I thought you'd be ashamed. It was just that I knew nobody else could have possibly understood the delirious new light in my eyes; nobody could have understood what the fuck's so great about a grey, humid morning in Binghamton, NY; nobody could have loved you the way I did, with all the intensity of morning, and being seventeen, and a slow, acidic, all-encompassing, naive sexual tension. So I always waited until nobody was around, because explanations would have been pointless. I'd climb your steps, open your door, set my things down by the stove, and fade into your arms... I'd listen to whatever nonsense you were mumbling in your sleep, and I'd tease you about it later, would leave the number for Roto-Rooter on your pager to let you know I'd been paying attention when you were telling me, sincerely, that Elvis was in your drain...

I always thought, in those mornings, that probably you loved me... Sometimes it didn't even matter. Sometimes all that mattered was that I loved you, and that we were sleepily alive and in each other's arms... I always dreamed of spending a whole night with you, of actually sleeping next to you, instead of sneaking in at the last possible moment... But I was seventeen... And I had parents... And when, finally, not so long ago, I got the opportunity to spend that much-longed-for night sleeping with you, it was the sunrise that was the most important part: when I could see the outlines of your face, when I was just awake enough to smell your body and respond to my own... It didn't really matter if you loved me. Probably you did. But if you didn't, at least it was morning and I loved you, and we were alive...

I always loved you with the purity and absoluteness of a sunrise... Sometimes, on humid mornings, hearing busses outside my window and lying peacefully on my own futon, alone, I can still smell you and I know you're still alive... By eleven or so, the feeling has passed; I'm at work, I'm mailing bills, I'm doodling in my notebook at Lost Dog and listening to the jazz band, I'm at Norman's apartment watching movies with my head on his shoulder, and I'm falling asleep with my hand resting in his... And I'm happy... And it's enough to know that in the morning, I'll wake up again, and that, wherever you are, whomever you're with, your eyes are opening to sunlight.

Yours with all things pure...
~Me*

"I stand here, staring at the sunrise..." --Passion.