Friday, June 26, 2009

Whenever I think of Michael Jackson, I think of:

- Daron Smythe going through ringtones in my car on the way to a Fusion show, and popping when he found "Dirty Diana"
- Jon telling me a story about how his football team in high school would sing, "You Are Not Alone"
- Watching Pop Up Video with Emily and loving the song "Black Or White"
- Being freaked out by the "Thriller" video
- Putting on my Michael Jackson Greatest Hits CD at Urban Outfitters for all my coworkers to enjoy
- The Halloween party deal they'd have at Jupiter Farms Elementary every year, Panther Prowl, because the gymnastic team would do a routine to "Thriller"
- Singing to "Billie Jean" super loudly in my car. I still do that.

It's definitely a sad day, not only with the death of the "King of Pop," but also the death of Farrah Fawcett. I didn't have any sort of attachment to Farrah, though, so I can't really speak of her. Horrible situation, though.


Saturday, June 20, 2009

There's a Bible in the drawer next to my bed,
And a heavy heart underneath the sheets.

Atlanta's bright lights are passing me by,
Steady going 80 on I-75.
It's not so easy trying to run from our past,
But it's all I can really do.
I want to talk to you.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

This is for holes punched in walls due to passion,
Or for being given up on like last Fall's fashion.

We are the trees that don't change colors.
We are the sidewalks with initials forever carved.
We are the words at the tip of your tongue.
We are the future.
(and this world is fucked.)

PS. You've ruined all of my favorite songs.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

"I was going to kiss you, but the cigarette smoke on your breath is really hindering that."

Your heart isn't speaking loud enough these days.

Tuesday, June 09, 2009

I could overanalyze every single word we say until it is crushed into nothing. But, all that would do is leave us speechless.

Sunday, June 07, 2009

Pretty eyes, pirate smile, you dated a music man.

Yet, all you knew how to do was sing siren songs.


Friday, June 05, 2009

The prettiest I had ever seen her is when she was standing in the rain. There was no rhyme or reason for why she was out there, and I'm not even sure if she knew that it was raining. She always felt like the outdoors was the only place she really felt alive. As a child, she would climb trees five times her size, but was always too afraid to climb down. I guess this was foreshadowing her relationships in later years.

I didn't know what to say to her that night, and I still don't know what to say about it. She had raccoon eyes that were dead-set on me. She knew just how to make me freeze up, like I didn't have a thought in my head or a tongue in my mouth.

" okay?"

That's all I could muster up. I got nothing. She could tell. She preyed on this sort of thing. She knew that she was able to leave me speechless, and she knew how to milk that for everything it was worth (which was more than I knew at the time). I was a better listener, anyway.

So, there she was, in her front yard; her eyes looking at me, then glancing at the stars, then back to me, then to the ground. This pattern kept repeating for what felt like hours, but was barely even minutes. Time has a funny way of stopping when you're young and du(in love)mb. I had to do something so the hands on the clock would start spinning again.

I reached out for her soaking wet hand, but she pulled away. She was just like her mother, no matter how hard she tried not to be. From one person to the next, thinking the burning bridges in her rearview mirror wouldn't make that big of a mess. But, the difference between them is that her mom never returned to the scene of the crime.

We did this every couple of months. She would come back, and then she would leave just as fast. I'm not sure if it was the summer air that kept me hanging on, or if it was just so I could have a story to tell anyone who would dare listen. I could talk about it all for hours, but I couldn't talk to her for a second. That's the shy, awkward teenager in me.

But it all goes back to that rainy night. If rain is typically symbolic for a rebirth of sorts, when do I get to feel new again?


Thursday, June 04, 2009

Please, stop me.