tuscaloosa > personals > missed connections


Replay - Bryant-Denny Stadium m4w

Date: 2010-09-03, 2:00PM CST

This is the first place I first missed you, and this is the first place where I will continue to miss you. The lights used to be off always--a dark circle in the bricked part of the city--the chair that I would bump into every time I woke up in the middle of the night when you would let me stay over: my eyes too tired to drive, my legs too weak to walk. You would sleep next to me like we were assigned black numbers on a metal bench: 1, then 2, 2, then 3. The seats would become rows, become sections. There was the night where they opened the door to your house and yelled inside, their breath filling the rooms with noise: there would be more yelling. There was the night a window was broken. You were asleep. You would always be asleep. Another secret: I would slide out of bed, one arm and one leg on either side of you--my body above you like a camera on a zip line, like a spider, like I was documenting, like I was sizing up angles: which piece to take, which piece to leave. This is about you. This is about you but you were asleep: you did not know that I did this, that I hovered for a second like a clumsy cloud before staggering into the dark, into desks, tables, chairs. This is about the numbers on the gates, the numbers on the screen, the numbers on our faces. In the dark, I paint half of my face red. I take my shirt off and throw it: it hangs on a ledge. It does not spiral. This is not about spiraling. This is not about spiraling--this is all coming out flat, wobbled. Let me start over: in a sea full of crimson, you were the most crimson. In a sea full of crimson, you were the most crimson. This has nothing to do with spiraling, with flushed cheeks, with nothing. This has nothing to do with that. This has nothing to do with how lately I can't color loss, how I sleep on my back. You might ask how I crawled back in bed--this time underneath you like an envelope slipped under a door, how you possibly could have noticed, how your arm did not move from my chest, how your fingers felt the laces of a scar. Then again, you might not ask any of these things.
PostingID: 1928393867

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