Last Drive Down Main

Lately, I’ve had this obsession with my past self. 

And anyone who knows me is well aware that I do have a problem—with obsession and with grief. But you know what? I’m realizing that I’m in a new season of self. I am completely stretched and have skin that I now can call my own. 

I’d like to think that I have sarcasm and I’m noticing that I’m much more reserved. 

I can’t toss around love. I don’t understand how those around me do so–-and how often the cycle of witness repeats. 

At seventeen I was honey-sweet, and turmoil never existed. I had addictions and constant epiphanies. Life is vivid at seventeen, and the world around me was still filled with so much light—was it magic or was it just me? 

I will never not be sad for the girl I once was. 

Although, if I had the chance to barge into my fourth-grade classroom before I became convoluted and corrupted by love and modern society—I’d tell her that she’s doing just fine. I’d tell her that she kissed a firefighter and a poet. And I’d tell her that she prefers being a flame rather than a muse. I’d tell her that the firefighter was the first that didn’t hurt, the first that was fun and low stakes—nothing too serious. Enough to forget but also enough to feel. 

I walk inside and hide my eyes. They’re warm and red. The streets are different and the houses are rich. We laugh and the lights are navy blue, but the sensation is green. Things are simple and they always have been. 

We laugh in the dark and he reminds me of this. 

Embarrassed I admit, “By the time I let shit go, I leave claw marks.”
He looks at me and says that the worst thing in the world could happen but the sun will come up. 

“Will it?” I ask. 

“Yes,” he says, “and you’ll wash your face and pour yourself a glass of water.”

I smile and feel mint. “You’re right”. I say, “You’re so very right.” 

I drive away, knowing we’ll see each other soon, ebbing and flowing. Without expectations or risks. For benefits maybe but mostly friends. Just friends.