March 8, 2011 § Leave a Comment
This room, it isn’t the same room. This room is different. Rivers run in this room.
Even if all the traces of you are gone by now, I still have that drawing I made for you; the one I made in the old room. It was a weeknight, and I was watching High Art because I was in one of those moods. You came over and you had so much affection for me even if I was completely oblivious. That night you wrote me a poem.
You, your long hair and ocean eyes, decided to roll a joint on my bed while I was on the floor, no longer watching that movie but still drinking wine. It was one of those nights when I probably shouldn’t have been drinking. But that summer knew no restriction and we were equally willing.
It worries me to think that we can barely rely on each other when it comes to remembering. Perhaps I am wrong about that, perhaps you have a better memory than I.
So that drawing, it’s rolled up in my room under my narrow desk. When I look at it, all I can remember is a man that I didn’t know, and I still do not really recall, who looked at the drawing and decided that it was a portrait of you. How did that 40 year old get in my kitchen in the first place, do you remember?
P. Jody by Marie Jane