February 19, 2007


I almost called last night.
Almost reached out, out from the witching hour and into your pale dawn, the opposite of a drunk dial; intoxicated exuberance replaced by sobriety and just-add-water sadness.

Certainly unexpected, after a day spent with Rob's grace and my chemicals (see also: M83) all smiles and silly jokes, peering at ridiculous knives and fondling a 5D before returning to simply relax.

Later, though, the injustice struck and I lay in bed, unable to sleep, stuck on the edge of a sadness that needed to be felt or ignored before anything else could happen and I numbly picked a selection of gut-punch songs on the iPod, reached for headphones and saw the phone, thought of you.

Decided against it in the end, as a disservice to my fledgling strength and your careful solitude - though your dependable cadence and audible gesticulations would have been a lift, they could just as easily have been a crutch.

In the end, it didn't matter; the raincloud passed, I watched Looney Tunes until I fell asleep, and now this is nothing more than memories committed to the Internet; a lesson for future and an offering to Google.

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