"there are too many songs written about you. and me. i say "you. and me" instead of you and me because you and me does not exist anymore. it is just you. and me. i don't care if that was confusing cause fuck you. i refuse to write a book about this. i have skimmed the fiction aisles at B&N and there is too many people crying over love. Too many people sighing in the aftermath of the some masterful storm that sweeped away all the memories. I refuse to play in my own vomit wearing yesterday's clothes. I will not write about you. and me. I will write about the asian woman who sits on the bus near to me. Her breasts are way too big for her body. She leans forward when she nods off to sleep. White men who look odd on..our.. buses stare at her and squeeze their hands into fists as if they are capturing her like fireflies. I wonder if this Asian woman can feel their hands suffocating her wings. My phone continued to beep as I catched glimpses of this Asian woman's face slowly ease into sleep but i cannot reach it in my pocket. i bet you're reading this and thinking this story is a grand metaphor about the foundation of our relationship. but alas, i am not that deep. i still dwell on the surface at all times. a man walks on the bus and tells the woman next to him i love you. she says i have a boyfriend like it is auto response on AIM. she doesnt blink but her eyes try to catch a glimpse of her new lover. she speaks disgust but her eyes search for a strand of interest to cling to. he tells her, "you're beautiful". she says "thank you. i have a boyfriend". but she blinks now. he says, "can we get married". she laughs. she is giving up her defenses. her heart conjures up a ronald reagan who echos within her- tear downnn that wallllllll. so she does. and the conversation flows free like citizens thirsty of freedom. we used to talk like that. now we block our numbers when we wanna say hello. now we don't even exist. the phone in my pocket continues to beep im supposing you wanna close this book now. i have hurt you. i have exposed too much, but this is just chapter one. wait till i include footnotes. go ahead close it. i will just continue this story in your head. i talked with an old friend today and we exchanged rumors. we spoke loud on the train about people who are now fathers, teachers who are no longer teaching, adminstrators who are now dating those former teachers. we shook hands and will probably never speak again. i turned my ipod up and i had an image of your new "friend" kissing your ear in all the spaces i left my offer of forever. were u lissseningggg? your new "friend" fucks you because he knows he cant make love to you. sloppy seconds. i bet he is reading this right now.
(hello, how are YOU? you, too, can close the book now too if you want motherfucker. but truth speaks loud. like an 808. and i dance to it when no one is looking. sometimes i laugh at you because you will one day write a book like me. and we will become frennz like you would want.)
hahaha. see, im laughing now. hhahahahahahehehaaha. im not writing about you. and me. "
* (this is a work of fiction (or is it) so dont ask me if i am ok. im fine. seriously. go read ben okri's "in arcadia". this is a piece inspired by his brilliance.)
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