“It’s meaningless”, you said

And I could’ve turned it all

into an array of metaphors

and lines that leaked symbolism

like alcoholic tears from your heart.

 

You asked me to wait,

pulled on the reigns,

and I knew it was my cue to

begin and discover secrets

your open book displayed.

 

Friends share secrets,

beers, and city cruises.

They also know the language of each others hips

and the apologies that follow excuses

“I’m sorry that it bruises” you said.

And I smiled and said “I’m happy that it did.

Because something so whimsical should

show some kind of permanence.”

 

I miss the spaces in

our comfortable conversations

when we took turns asking each other

awkward questions.

“It’s your turn” I’d say,

“tell me whats on your mind

and I’ll try to meet you half way.”

And you’d laugh in nervous syllables

that backed away

from the white elephant that disappered

when our pants came off

and logic came on.

 

The caged air in my car

filled with moans of

what our feelings felt like

if they had fingers as fast

as our beating heart pressures

and impulses.

Empty vowel-sounds that made our

indulgences feel like smoking

a cigarette after you find they kill you.

Besides, neither of us smoked anyway.

But we still carried lighters with us.

 

Your promising smile betraying

every promise we made to stop

and your back like that back of a hard cover book

that I gripped intensely as I read

and waited excitingly

and frustratingly

to reach the climax.

There was never a resolution, just

the color of your skin that

taste like the memories

of an open sea

that I tried to forget

by washing out with nothing but salt.

Rinse lather and repeat,

we were both trying to cheat

on tests we both knew the answers to

and neither of us ever won,

or lost.

 

 

And yet somehow to me,

It all made sense.

 

I want to make sure you don’t think I ran away.
Your streets are tainted with enough regrets
of memories everyone holds dear
but doesn’t remember how they felt.
Sad smirks and ashamed remarks
people make when asked “and where do you come from?”
And they laughingly reply, “Hell Paso”.

I’m sorry they are ashamed of roots that
are as visible in their skin as
the star on your mountain
and the colors of your sunsets.
I’m sorry they forgot what you felt like.
The times you left the streets empty and safe
so they could play baseball in them at 3 in the morning
The summer nights you blanketed over
good times and winters
you never felt you could touch.
The people you raised to smile and say “good afternoon”
to perfect strangers.
And the amazing burritos and lemonade
you offered in the mornings after those
nights they drank a little bit too much.
Yeah, you were there for their first love.
The first time they kissed in empty parks
and felt they were amongst the stars
that danced in your open skies.
Your open skies….
limited only by the soft curves of mountains
we saw as molehills
and never thanked
for making the rain smell so good
letting us know what direction we were driving too or
for turning the sky into hues of orange, red and purple;
and the line of the horizon to the east
that we all looked towards to
and waited anxiously to reach,
yet angrily because we felt stuck there.

I hope you don’t think I was running away.
And I’m sorry there was a time in my life
when I sure as hell wanted to.
When I didn’t realize it was anger
and impatience tying me down
instead of your streets I blamed.
I’m sorry I got stuck playing the waiting game
and never thought that It might be the reason
I never saw how beautiful you were.
Thank you for providing the ground
my roots grew into.
Thank you for the time that gave me the wisdom
to say thank you.

I cried as I saw you disappear from my rearview mirror
and smiled because I knew you would always be home