18 November 2009

The Voice of an Old Friend

When you hear the voice of an old friend, you are with them. You can taste them, smell them once again. You can feel the blanket under your back as you lay together staring into wishing flowers floating in the blue above. You can feel the blades of grass poke you on your side as you lean towards her. The smell of her hair and perfume mixes with the smell of the phone in your hand. You instantly feel younger again, the world is newer. You remember the time you got caught doing things in her back yard. Water balloons and garden-hose fights. You can taste the cigarette on her breath as you kissed her for the first time. You can remember when you first placed your hand up her shirt and how embarrassed you were that your pants were sticking out that way. You can feel the tingle that dances up your back in the form of goose bumps when she didn't laugh at the bulge and instead placed her hand on you. You can remember riding your bike for miles to see her, sneaking behind the church to look and touch at each other naked. Remember how the phone calls were so long thy blended from one day to the next. Remember her other lovers' names. Wonder if she remembers what you were like then as much as you remember her. The world felt small then and you were never going to lose touch. Everything silly you did then would be more silly now; but it wouldn't mind being sillier now. If that meant being with her, to feel younger again. To feel the energy of the newness of it all. To forget the stress of life, and how you must be careful with everything. You were innocent devils sinning all the way the basement for clumsy lust. Clumsy lust that weren't ready for, but gave you stories to brag about to friends drunk. Wonder if they count you as one of the ones that mattered or another name rewritten into every new address book. Just in case, they need to call and remember, like this.

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