On May 25 I baked you a strawberry cake with cream cheese frosting. I brought you the very best flavors and packaged them in floral boxes. You devoured every sweet-toothed present.
We've had conversations about rocks and what they would say if they could speak.
"I bet marble would have a snoody, rich voice, and granite would be a chipping, toothless redneck."
You laugh at the structure attempting to hold up my marijuana induced speech.
But pause. Wait.
It's memory. Laughter like a smothered echo. Affection blurred beyond recognition.
Yet, if I twist this moment in just the right light, I can almost hear your happiness reaching through me.
I know the Darkside offered cookies, but did you really have to cross over? We were hemoglobin's for life, remember? I even wrote it on your birthday cake
I threw up on your hand once, but all you did was smile at me, as if I was only puking rainbows. (Popov and Tampico!)
I made you burn me that night, or to be more accurate, I burnt myself while you held the cigarette.
We passed out in a hammock, and I found your chapped lips pressed against my own. You were soft and careful, your mouth caressing my nerves with gentle sensations, but I couldn't do this. I couldn't even see straight.
I said no, yet your drunk fingers kept reaching for virgin flesh. I say
And snap. It's no longer a memory. It's you recoiling from the desire sparking in your palms, you running down the steps and to the bonfire, away from the wrong girl, wrong place, wrong time.
It's me realizing that you could not be who you are without that vodka blurring your balance and slurring your speech.
But how would I know anything about what you are or aren't anyway? Who am I to be making accusations against someone who hasn't even told me their favorite color. (do you even have one?)
I've lain next to your bare alabaster body too many times to count, but my favorite was the time you turned away. I'd been awake, watching you and trying to crawl closer to your skin. Just when I thought I couldn't get any closer, you ruined my comfortable position with a single roll over.
.." I state like it's the only word you'll remember me saying, and maybe, it just might be.
I don't know why, but now, I'm writing a letter for someone who doesn't write back. I'm reminding that someone of memories meant for a lifetime (meant is past tense). These moments that keep him up at night.
I've heard stories of you blaring music when everyone is asleep. I wonder if you're just trying to ignore your own thoughts or do those anarchy drenched beats have you addicted? Are those head-phones your personal syringes?
I know you're contained.
(but I'm a fool who says, but doesn't know, and maybe that's just my way of asking)
But next time you find rage screaming into your fists (fury leaving paper-cuts across your freckled-knuckles) just know that somewhere, somehow, some girl is listening to the out-of-tune screams ripping from your guitar-string vocal-chords.
I'll be waiting with a cake, some Popov, and bed to curl across.
And while I listen for the shrieks of your midnight echo,
I stay a while longer, because maybe,
it's only a memory.
Half-Moon; the Last of the Hemoglobins.
P.s. May our species rest in peace.