Thursday, April 12, 2012
When Sam Weller's moved to Trolley Square and other tragedies.
To the strange boy on the train:
We liked your shoulders, and we liked the contours of your elbows -- and your skinny ankles, we liked those, too. There was something about the way you wore black and brown together that made it okay. Did you catch us staring? You caught us staring, you did, but we kept at it because you had a such nice face. It was hard to look away from, almost. Like it had a story to tell, and if you looked long enough, it might tell it to you. You looked back, I saw you look back twice, was it because you could feel our eyes or because you thought we were beautiful? I like that you brought your bike on the train. I wonder where you were coming from. I know where you got off, but I wonder where you went. Your arms were a canvas, I wish I'd gotten a better look at those paintings. Your lips were the sort of lips that never completely close. I bet you read books. I bet you like Catcher in the Rye and dystopian novels. I bet you think about the universe a lot. I bet you drink too much coffee and write in all caps and worry about money. What were you listening to?
We got off at the same stop. You dropped your water bottle. It was empty (I'm glad you like saving the planet), and I didn't know if I should've grabbed it for you. Maybe we both would've bent down at the same time and then maybe our hands would've touched and then maybe we would've made lovely movie-moment eye contact, but I took too long deciding if I should bend down and I was having trouble getting down the slippery stairs anyway, and you turned around yourself and you picked it up yourself and walked your bike to the cross walk.
And then you rode away in the rain, your shoulders like a sunset, and I wanted you to look back, but you didn't.
And we're still drenched to the bones around here.
All my love,