sometimes when i write about you i wonder if you’re writing about me too. maybe while you’re sitting in your little room with your vintage lamp turned on listening to your parents scream at each other and pound on your door and tell you get off your ass, you write about me. i wonder if you write about me being the girl who trips over flat ground and is scared shitless of alcohol. or maybe you write that i’m a girl with eyes so empty you can see the war going on inside of me, standing on a street corner waiting for a broken light to change.
when i’m falling asleep you’re probably writing about how much you love the nighttime because the hills look so smooth against the dark sky. you told me once that you loved the way the hills looked like satin sheets that lovers’ knees poke up under. you’ll write about how they make you daydream when you drive at night, listening to your favorite music and smiling so wide because they give you some sort of twisted hope that someday you’ll find someone that will make your life have so much more sense.
i bet that when you’re fumbling for the soap in your shower i’m writing about sandy beaches with lost stereos and lost virginities of girls who got lied to and cried. i was about five or six when i tripped and fell at the lake and found something that looked like a balloon but daddy’s eyes got wide when i showed him. i’ll write about how, at twelve years old i learned what a condom was and what happens when you don’t use one and what happens when the boy who uses it is gone all except for the memories left in all that latex.
when we’re together we’re not writing, we’re sitting in trees and on rooftops and trying to figure out what song was just playing on the radio. but your voice makes me think of coffee pouring in the morning and screaming mothers and daughters. the way my hips swing when i walk makes you think of a park and broken see-saws and children jumping off the swings to be brave. we’ll sing songs together even though you can be a little off-key sometimes but that’s okay, it just makes the words come even faster.
when you kiss me goodnight and i whisper iloveyou to the closed door, we run up to our rooms to dial our telephones. we call each other so we can hear the sounds of our voices and the clicks of our keyboard as we compose the perfect story made of sticks and stones and bird feathers parents tell their children to put down. when we’re done we read them to ourselves but not to each other and we say “i like you a lot.” [love is too big for us still] and hang up the phones.
you’re falling asleep thinking of hills against the sky like satin sheets covering lovers’ knees and i’m thinking of how i don’t want to be like another girl who loses her virginity to the sound of crashing wakes and seagulls crying for her.
you call me in the morning and say “let’s write something together.” and i say “okay.”
<sub> another old favorite. i feel like i’m not writing as brilliantly as i used to… it makes me sad.