a boston kind of night.
i sit across from friends at the dive that has become our latest fashion trend, seeping into our life because you can smoke inside and the food is cheap and sometimes good.
i keep having to remind myself that i'm not in boston, and this isn't delihaus, and boy isn't going to walk through that door.
the air tastes just like massachusetts tonight.
i light my cigarette and fumble with my zippo as i shake my head to one of rockstar's pale jokes. i look at him and wonder who's in boston tonight.
"remember the waitress at delihaus with the butterfly tattoo on her neck?"
rockstar's eyes grow wide with love and memory. i could tell that he hadn't thought of her since. whatever happened to the stories we created for people we never knew?
later, we sit on the porch waxing and waning society's conventional relationships and why protocol doesn't fit my way of living. we smoke our camel lights, and i find myself with a sense of urgency that he used to have with every inhale. the house is busy with drop-bys and always theres. the tv is on, radios are playing, conversations are expiring, and i wonder, was boston ever this simple? i can smell the charles river resting and hear the train running frantically down commonwealth.
i go into my room and end up explaining the delicate balance of friendships and relationships (which requires more explanation than most people get) to a guy i barely know, throwing myself back to one of the first allnight sessions that boy and i had together. but this time and i was playing both boy and i's parts, smoking enough for two and arguing with myself.
it's a boston kind of night, and we're all feeling into the finely cut grooves that the city left us with.
i climb into bed, light off, candle lit. superman's not answering, and so i call philosopher and light my nightcap cigarette.
boston has been exploring both of our memories, because we were willing to make sacrifices for our revolution, but we never thought it would come to having to lose one of us.
i want to follow storyteller into his jaded horizon, and i want to talk to the world.
"the next big task belongs to you."
maybe i don't want it, and someone, give me an out. this isn't boston, and i'm stepping off my blue screen and into your night. open my torso and let out my scream.
how boston was our genius of ripping glorious times, and now, austin is our safe haven in sorrow and anger. don't let me hang up this phone since voices are all i have that remind me of home.
i'm in boston now, and i've left austin behind. i can feel crushing snow under my boots, and i can remember when texas made me cry. there is no new orleans, and there never was a hospital. we're just sitting on that orange couch until the end of the world, hoping that we beat the sun to its rising.
