tuckova

Did that happen or did I dream it? Did I in fact run my hand across the top of your head, the scritchy softness of your short hair like a cat or some other soft creature. Did I talk to you for hours and hours while spilled beer dripped into my lap, noticed and ignored. Was there something sweet at the end. Did we share water like Michael Smith and Jubal Harshaw, but better because in this story women are not objects, or not always. Did I have the same conversation with someone over and over, where he was white and trying to talk like a gangster and I was white and offended but trying not to be because I also was young, once, a long time ago. Did somebody hand me my cell phone when I dropped it. One can make such a good first impression but then somebody not you or me fell down the stairs, laughing. I have not lost so many ideas since 1995 I think. Flying out of the brain cave of my mouth like bats, they were, and some were voiced and some flew under the sonar. How I wanted to say you were beautiful. Someone kissed my neck and I thought: Now I know what to remember; I will remember this, this is when I was last kissed. Then he fell down the stairs, laughing, and a man from a seventies poster of a movie about pimps carried him back upstairs, a cotton scarf that looked like animal skin. The last time I fell in love was twenty years ago and the last time someone fell in love with me was never but love itself is not hard to feel. How things can sparkle: the stars; the window reflecting the moon; our eyes.