I'm lucky to be sitting here. And I feel that. My phone is playing a terrible home recording. The heat has just turned off. I can smell the bananas ripening in the bowl. Motorcycles grumble in the yard. A girlfriend is bringing me cigarettes. My husband is out for a swim. I am alone, listening to a Delean sing a song, called "Joel."And my heart is lifting right out of this bar stool.
I feel so close to them. Years and years, hundreds of kilometers away, but right now, they are in my dinning room. Spilling into the kitchen, serenading my plants, annoying my neighbors. I'm so happy I could cry. I adore this melancholia.
I wish that they were here. I'm happier that they aren't. Happiest that I recorded this the last time I saw her, that I can't remember the last time I emailed him. That they are busy, buried in their pasts. That I have this, whatever it is, to remember them with.
Delean fucks up, "Oh god it's so hard to pick chords when they mean so much to you."
Ain't that the truth?
I miss you so terribly. My eyes prick. I rub my nose. I keep writing cause it feels so good to look back and read me remembering you. The tremor in my tummy, I hold on to and would prostrate myself on dusty wooden floors that slope like crazy, in a home that is not my house to say, thank you for this. I can hear our stories intertwining even now.
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