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it's early january, and i'm wishing away at the stars. i'm wallowing away with the ghosts of every person i once knew, laying on top of a grave and staring into nothingness. there's a cigarette in between my lips - cold and jittering, against the harsh winds of jersey - and you're on the other gravestone beside me. we don't acknowledge eachother with anything but a few occasional glances, and as my pulse bangs against my chest, your little smile grows. it's the only sense of company i feel that night. i wouldn't trade this for the world.
it's february, and i'm busying through the streets, trying to get my friend something to eat for the night (his living situation isn't great; if he needs someone to depend on, i'm always there). you're in the first store i go to, and when i see your face, i recognize it as the face underneath the dim moonlight and hanging stars. it looks a little less flattering under the bright, bleached lights of the store, as it highlights the shadows underneath your jaw and your nose, but i can't help myself when i stare for a moment, scanning over your face for no actual reason. you glance up at me, and for a moment, your face relaxes, and i realize two things; one, that you know me, and two, that both of us want to say something, but neither of us know where to go from here. so, we talk through looks as i nod my head, and you nod yours back. that's all we do, and i go along my way, glancing at the apron you were (as i'll learn later) forced to wear for the job. i smile at it for a second.
it's mid-march, and i'm bawling against my mother's gravestone. amidst these cold gravestones, and the muddy ground that holds them intact, her's still holds her warmth, and captures her essense better than any amount of words could. it smells a little bit like her, too; like cinammon and coffee. i breathe the earthy smell in and scream my grief out. i think, in a stupidly juvenile way - why does the world have to go on without me? will i think about this forever? - until you come through, and you give me a light tap on the shoulder. i yelp, scurry away, and turn to your concerned face. we don't exchange any words for a long while, but as you open your mouth to speak, i stumble back onto my feet and tell you i don't want any pity. you just chuckle and say, 'i know. you don't deserve it. i just thought you could use some company, you know?'
and so, we decide on taking a walk together. the moon shines over you and highlights the specialties of your face; your jaw, soft and defined, your nose, pointed and tilting upwards, and your eyes, glimmering with hazel. i learn a thing or two about you, and you learn some things about me. i tell you my mother's dead, that she died of a heart attack two months ago, and that i don't know what to do, and that everything's closing in on me, and you say nothing but a few mumbles whilst i speak. of course, there's nothing special about the night but one thing; you. you, you, and you. the way were each other's buckets to dump our useless trash in; you, everything about you made that night so hideously special. you, and you, and more of you. and i'm so, so glad we decided to exchange numbers that night.
it's late april, and we talk more than we should. my dad is slowly slipping away from the picture, and so i don't chase after him, i just learn about your day, and even more things about you. one, that your brother died a week after my mother did, and two, that you're also fairly disoriented right now. we talk about it for a while the day after we exchange numbers. you tell me he was murdered, and i cringe at the message. i slowly begin to love the way you talk. your voice is high and tinted with rasp each time we call, and i never tell you i love your voice. i just listen to it with a blurry, love-shaped view of the world for a few moments. of course, i hadn't known it was love at the time. i just thought of it as a sickeningly sweet churn that my stomach made every time i heard you talk. the only difference between you and anyone else was that i could talk to you in spite of it all. i was young, and socially insecure, but i could talk to you like i had known you for years. and, to be honest, those kinds of conversations never ended. they just expanded beyond death and hopelessness.
and yes, you know my name, but i only know the name i gave you. gee. it's all i can think about for days.
it's late june, and the weather is bashing down on us in heatwaves. the night feels like it has lasted for years, and we're on the beach after a day of running away from all our responsibilities. your eyes have never been so bright, and your smile has never been so impossible. you love the warmth of the water and the coldness of my skin. i love the coldness of the night, and the warm nature of you. after a night of paddling in the water and creating muddy sand castles, i dig our names into the sand, writing: 'FRANK + GEE'. you crawl towards it, and you proceed to write down 'RARD' in place of the second 'E'. that's how i learn your real name, gerard.
it's mid july, and the weather hasn't been getting any better. i feel sick on cold popsicles, but i won't take off my black gloves. you're beside me, with cold beers scattered around you. i don't drink, but you do. you started drinking shortly after your brother died, and i'm the only one that won't shun you for it. you just 'know it'. when i offer to take a small sip of it, just to see what it's like, to see what both you and dad are so obsessed with, you laugh, and as i actually drink the beer, i gag, sputtering all over my bed and evoking a wild laugh from you. by 2005, almost all kids are into these things. i just can't stomach them.
it's now late july, and we're kissing on my bed. my dad hasn't been home in a day, which is usual for him, and i don't think he'll be back until it's too late for us to care. we kiss gently, awkwardly, like we haven't thought about it a million times before. your mouth stings of cigarettes, and i'm blowing smoke into your mouth, letting it fly into the air. i'm nervous. i'm nervous for you to see that i am not what i am; that i look like i know what i'm doing, i move against you like i know what i'm doing, but i don't think i'll ever be less sure of what's happening. after the night ends, we're laying in bed - with your back turned to me, pressing against my chest - and your face has never looked so beautiful under a lamp light. your sweat shimmers and your eyes glimmer lowly, hidden by a curtain of your long lashes. you say: 'sometimes i feel like we're the realest things in a world like this,' whilst your hand touches mine, 'i love you, frankie.' and i don't say anything in return. i just kiss your shoulder, and then i make a light bruise over it.
it's august, and we're in the hospital. at this point in time, your mom has met my dad - after my mom wanted to know where i've been spending all my time - and they're bickering to eachother whilst we stay silent, staring at the ground - and occasionally at each other. at this point in time, we've made more mistakes than one. we know that already. but we still tell our parents that we're sorry for my bruised eye or your broken nose, and that it was a mistake, even though it wasn't completely spontaneous. there wasn't any adrenaline involved in fighting a group of kids because they yelled slurs at us. there was no fight or flight response. we just did it because we thought we needed something to prove. your hand is in mine, and you give me a passive smile at some point during our mothers' light banter. it lights up my whole day; the rest of my week, even. nobody's smile will ever make me as happy as yours does, i think for a moment.
it's early september, and i'm peircing your belly. you're writhing in pain and whining aloud, attempting not to cry underneath the sharp pressure of the tool - which is barely a tool - i'm using to pierce you. at some point, a scarlet pearl pokes out of the wound, and that's where i know to stop. you rise up and gasp sharply at the feeling, and i rush out of the room to go look for a towel. something about the situation makes me giggle. i'm not sure if it's nervousness, or stress, or the fact that you won't remember any of this because of how drunk you are. i'm no one to talk, though. i'm having an amazing time. your belly button has been pierced by the time it's around 6:00 PM. you love the way it looks, but every time you brush your fingertips against the steep metal, you flinch in pain. we agree to never do anything like this again. you tell me your head hurts, and so i kiss the side of it.
it's late october, and the lights in my room are off. you have a cupcake in hand, decorated frivolously and barely holding onto the single candle shoved inside of it, and we're both sitting on my bed. you're wearing your green jacket and a glowing smile.
'don't blow the candle out yet,' you say, and before i can ask why, you glance up at me and go: 'you gotta make a wish, remember?'
i think for a moment. i wish for a new phone and a place in heaven for my mother before i blow the candles out. you would never say it, but i can tell you want your name to be snugged into my silent wish somehow.
it's mid-november, and the air feels frosty. men and women alike shake off the familiar breeze of this small town, and i'm waiting by the bus stop for you. you just never make it.
it's early december, and loneliness is hanging loosely in the air. i have a job now. you were ultimately fired from yours, and each time i think about it, i resist the urge to call you and scream at you. it's not the fact that you were fired, no, but the mere fact that you got fired because you were smuggling alcohol in the break room. i don't think i'll ever understand you.
january comes to light before i can see it. we're laying against a pile of leaves, and there's someone else beside us. he's a young boy with freckled skin and a knack for smiling. he's around the same age as us, and your pinky hasn't left his since we got here. i feel emptiness hallowing my feet, and the world around me swirling in circles. i want to sleep, but i can't. i can't do anything.
february rolls around smoothly enough so that i can tolerate it. waves of your duvet swarm on top of our naked legs, glowing and lively, while you ask me questions about my mother. her skin, porcelain and dedicated to the memories she had made, her eyes, wrinkly and smile-like, and her way of talking, dedicated to my memory, all flow down on me, and i can barely think with how drunk i am. you, however, manage to comprehend every word i'm saying, even though i sound like someone else. someone who hadn't been talking about their dead mother, but a piece of their soul.
it's mid-march, and you're screaming. the world revolves around you, the air curtles in your pain, and the rain seems to crash whilst the clouds cry in your sorrow. you burned yourself with a cigarette whilst telling me about your brother, venting about him endlessly, like he could be the only good thing in that burn of yours. it's not the stinging burn that makes you cry, though. it's just the smell of his beanie that you can't help but recall.
it's june, and you're with that boy again. i realize that if i stop walking alongside you, even for a moment, it won't really affect how you talk to me (if you even do). you're so far away, and yet, so close to me.