if i was to tell you...

i dropped my keys on the table by the door. since locking the doors on the 1979 chrysler new yorker, i anticipated dropping my backpack off in my room, and occupying the bathroom for a few seconds, freeing the mcdonald's sweet tea from within. (side note: i think i just made peeing sound kinda intriguing)

i washed my hands and played the staring game with myself, wishing the reflection was a real twin so i could hit the shit out of him for not asking her to sleep in my bed instead of her own.
or at least sit on it for hours while we play tag around the borders - fucking up the fitted sheets while doing everything but fucking.

fucking's not a thought right now.
i like her to much to fuck her this early.
(side note: this is one of those things that makes a guy realize he's growing)

i run the shower water and gargle with the scope.
between swishes from cheek to cheek i find new hopes.

i want to be home with her when the electricity decides to take a turn for the worst
so i can feed her cheesecake and yogurt with the lights out, laughing because i got some on her forehead.

i want to put a blank disc into the slot and fill it with the 18 songs that remind me of her.

i thought about grabbing my toothbrush and running to my car.
crank it up and pray i have enough gas to get me to that avenue of trees I know exist on the other side of silence.
hoping she placed her phone by her ear so she'd feel it vibrate when i texted.

tell her about the bench i found one night while walking off a creative high.
tell her to mapquest the spot and meet me there.

she'd say: 'why should i?'

i'd say: 'because i was standing in my closet and couldn't think of anything i'd rather be doing than playing a game of spades with the cards up with you at 4:45am - waiting to wake the sun up to let him know it's monday and he has work to do.'

she'd say: 'but i'm half sleep. i wouldn't be any fun.'

i'd say: 'if i was to tell you just how much i need you, would you come tonight?'

she'd say: 'yes.'

and i'd do that.

and then we...

i walked into the room smelling like outdoors and velveeta cheese.
she was there - squatted in the corner crying, holding the phone close to her cheek.
she spoke softly and broken into the receiver.

she was crying.

a salty residue resided on my lips.
i saved those tears for november.
i saved those tears for this.
it's been years since i last cried.

i saved those tears for this november.

"mom...wake up...he won. we won. our president is black. we are...american now."

i sat on the bed and listened as she hung up.

there's a silence that happens.
that quick glance and long exchange of unspoken whispers, moans and screams.

to break the silence, her eyes whispered: "we did it."
my bottom lip forced its way between my teeth, and my eyes made their way to the floor.
i spoke out loud: "we did it, huh?"

"yes"

on the other side of that silence i wanted to create an existence.
an existence that screamed as loud as the smoke that followed me back into the house.

i wanted my hands to be soft enough to hold her back when we hugged in celebration.
i need my lips to find hers in the dark corner from which she came in silence.

tomorrow when i tell the story of election night 2008 to the man who asks "what did you do when they announced the winner?," i want to tell him about how good you smelled when we hugged. how soft your lips were when we kissed.

i want to remember my walking back in differently.
i want to remember me walking in - attempting to begin discourse on african-americans and voting, and you'd say something like: "do we need to discuss this now?"

i want to remember you sitting next to me on the bed - kissing my neck and bindly finding that spot on my earlobe, and i'd say: "you think we should hit the streets and celebrate with the people?"

i want to remember you - hair undone - sweat pants and sneakers - white t-shirt and cereal box wristband that once belonged to your cousin - kissing me. between lip-to-skin sounds you'd tell me: "can't we forget about the election? let us put down the number two pencils and council member at large fliers and break some shit."

and i call you counter-revolutionary.

you counter: "let us occupy the democratic headquarters and love each other. let our backs press hard against barack's face plastered on walls behind barbed wire fences. grab as much flesh on my back as you can and hold it. press me equally as close to you and love me as though the election depended on it. love me like this night may not survive the cheers and bottle popping."

and then we turn off the television - and loved as though the love we made would bring about change.

when i die.

soft comforters and fluffy pillows have been put in place to ease the falls. and rules have been set to limit the experience. i've run through the alleys of tucson drank hot tea on the upper east side of new york city and swam in two of the world's oceans. i know how and why people are people pass through life in a cozy, comfortable, stifling state.
it's not for me.

i do not want, nor do i seek a comfortable life.
i buy old cars because i enjoy the bumps in the road.

i want to do more than breathe - reproduce - die.

i do not want to go gentle into that good night with smooth skin and no regrets.

i want to die cursing the sun from a park bench with bread crumbs in my left hand, and a walking cane in my right. i want to scream at those who walk by as drool falls from my lip.
i want them to say "look at that old man. that's sad. he's talking to himself."

i will hear them and spit back:

"you are the ones who hated every moment you spent at your job. you are the ones who fueled the petty arguments with your husbands and wives. it was you broke your back to fulfill a dream you didn't even conceive. you who softly whispered 'no' when your soul screamed 'yes,' are said. the wind wishes it was as free as i have become. the sun and i share secrets the night will never hear."

and i will sit back on my bench and hope those sad folks will drop a dime into my cup.

the one i like.

she asked me: 'what kind of girl you like?'

i laughed and mimicked helen keller.
i wanted her to ask again, but this time giving me some kind of sing that it was really a selfish question.

this time i needed her to ask: 'what is it about me that you like?'
but she didn't. she repeated the original question.

i wanted to tell her about all my failed relationships
and how in each of those i chose the girl for the wrong reason.

i didn't need an 'awww'
i just want her to believe in fate and believe that each of those failed relationships let me down a path that forked here.

shit like that only happens in movies with white folks.

i needed a 'thorough bitch.'
an 'adapt in any borough bitch.'
-biggie smalls.

i want to stand on a dance floor
unable to hear her
but watching her lips move to every word of jay-z's 'party life.'

i want to be able to hit her with a pillow during an argument
then all her a nigga and we both laugh cause we know the argument is stupid.

while eating from the wendy's dollar menu we'd come up with jokes about each others mother.
of course mine would be funnier, so i'd joke her about her lameness.

i want to fart under covers and blame her while holding her head under here until the smell disappears.

we're standing on the corner blowing heat into our hands, drinking from green and white cups, thinking of the places we were warm last, talking about this woman i'd like to find.

so i stood there remembering my theories on fantasies.
some should remain just that: a fantasy.
they keep us hoping. keep us believing.

when they become real, we have to deal with the real.
the bullshit that comes along with 'real.'

and i realized these were all thoughts.
i had said nothing.
her question had not been answered.
and my hands were freezing.

'i'll buy you a hot chocolate' she said.

'thanks. i'd like that.'