Two Years Ago (originally written July 12, 2007)
In a moment's time we find ourselves on a blanket looking up at the crescent moon over an open field; airplanes flying above are totally clueless to how they are affecting our lives. They see much from such great heights, but will never see us. There is a great roar in the altitudes of the airplane, yet as quiet as a gentle Summer's breeze to the ears of the young couple.
The tree line protects the two of wandering eyes from the neighborhood nearby. All night a tower beyond the city limit has flickered monotonously--hypnotically placing the two minds in a trance, magnetically bonding the two bodies to one--as it illuminates the shallow fog that is billowing up from the open field, while the early morning dew sets in. Vaguely shines the light of the neighborhood's streetlamps, adding a glimmer to her eyes. There are no sounds but the intimate breathing of the innocent couple.
There is nothing to say--the stars provide an intimate conversation; the moon compliments the delicate situation--as the two in love get lost in the darkness of night praying that morning never comes. Life was not wasted, for tonight was real.
One Year Later (originally written March 24, 2008)
First a stumble and a giggle off the front porch where we had drunk our final drink, smoked our last cigarette, drowned ourselves in elixirs and remembered our final thoughts. That place had lost its purity somewhere in between the eleven cigarette butts lying helplessly alone, and the two condoms used in vain; I’ll clean it all up before morning.
I told her that I was alone before she was a part of my life, and that I loved her more than I could ever love anyone else; I believed this to be true.
She is in every way the most beautiful person I have ever laid eyes upon. Her eyes are comprised of a beautiful shade of ocean blue; her complexion is made up of an attractive tan colour that didn’t--in any way--aesthetically appease my burnt out, fair tone; her hair is always gorgeous, anyway she has it; her body is filled out in such a perfect way that she could be with anyone whom she desires. What brings tears to my eyes is the fact that I--and only I--should be the tranked out, helpless, drug-crazed victim wandering God-knows where at two in the morning to satisfy cheap humanistic pleasures... not her. It feels as if even though she is older than I, somehow I have taken the purity and innocence out of her life; I can see it even more so now.
Her eyes have become glassed over and bloodshot; they scream for attention from the alcohol she consumed; her skin is flushed and clammy from the pills; her hair is, in every form of the definition, ****ed up; her beautiful personality has become a faceless void; her womanly strut has become a skanky stumble; her beautiful lips can now only provide a drunken smile and vain kisses that mean nothing more than she’s horny.
At two in the morning she asks why I’m crying. I tell her we should go to the meadow; she agrees. We take each others' hand--not because it’s romantic, but because we would fall ****face on the ground without something to lean on--and make our way to the meadow behind my house.
Before the drugs it used to be a place for our passion and true desire for each others' company. We used to take my Audubon Field Guide To the Night Sky to the field every night and see who could find the most constellations. I used to make them up when she was winning; I think she did too. I kissed her for the first time out here a year ago. It was the night we slept out with just us and a sleeping bag under a Summer’s full moon. I would never believe it if someone told me that my motives for our love would change in less than a year; I had everything I wanted with her being in my life. It is Spring now, and the times are still changing.
Together we stand, divided we fall down on the grass; and again I begin to cry. She wipes my tears and puts her arms around me and lays her head on my shoulder and tells me she loves me so much. Still panting from the conversation through tears, I express to her my nostalgia: I tell her that I want our relationship to be like it was a year ago; I tell her I want to be able to kiss her again and remember the feeling; I tell her I want to look into her beautiful blue eyes and not see a product of the drugs she's taken.
She, too, with tears in her eyes asks if our relationship will fade away if we change. Without giving her an answer, I apologize for bringing my lifestyle upon her and tell her I’ll love her even if the season never changes again.
