Wednesday, August 25, 2010

one last morning

You sleep like a log, the last I remember. And it was hell on earth, trying to get you up once you'd fallen asleep.
You'd be awake, the last person I said goodnight to before switching the computer off,
And then I'd text you in the morning about lunch, and you'd be awake, having pulled an all-nighter.
I'd call you crazy, stark barking mad. And you'd decide, just as school started for me, that it might be an idea to grab sleep before we met up for lunch.
And then vicky would go,
"Omgggg! We'll never meet him for lunch after school."
And we wouldn't, but we'd rearrange,
Except it never worked-
Until you slept at some kind of decently human hour.
It always seemed more possible to meet you before school even started,
I'm pretty sure we might have tried that actually.

It's seven right now, and it looks pretty much like those mornings I'd be on my way to school.
And, you're on your way.
It always takes me aback, how unchanged the rest of the world seems to be.

Sometimes, it feels like I'm clawing at the pavement, my nails scratching against concrete,
And I'm screaming, "No. Nonono, this is my life. THIS is my life."
If we could hold on longer to everything that we know, I'm pretty sure we would.
I'm frustrated at how unchanged the world is, while you sit,
knitting all that you have left together.

People groan at the sound of their alarm going off, they stand at the bus stops taking long drags off their rapidly yellowing cigarette,
Students think about the algebra quiz they've got lined up after recess and the lit paper they haven't finished, hating their life for what it is.

And I sit in an empty prata shop, waiting for you,
And wishing desperately that this wasn't what it is.

A huge part of me wants time to draw itself out painfully slowly.
For once, I don't mind sitting here waiting- if it means that time is extending itself and you're getting more of it.

I must make this all sound terrifyingly melodramatic, the sod that I am.
It didn't strike me how much it meant, to see you just this one more time before, until I almost couldn't. And it hurt, that single moment.
Everything spilling out like I wouldn't, couldn't contain it. I didn't know what I would do, and I felt like I was close to crumpling up in the middle of a mall.

Things work out, as they do sometimes.
And I am here waiting.

It's twenty to eight, in this empty prata shop.
There's the smell of morning, the buzz of motorbikes, the gasp and sigh of buses loading up on passengers,
And I am here.

Some part of me wishing that you'll text to say,
"I'm damn sleepy," in that way you do, and,
"Can we meet after you're done with school instead?"

Baby, you have no idea.

But I figure, y'know,
It's certainly going to be a lot less painful if one stops clawing at the pavement as we get hauled away by our ankles.
And I suppose, you already knew this too.

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