Record Store

-Retro images of bands, flashes put into your mind by the music blasting out the store's stereo, upbeat and loved once and again.-

You take a step back in time when you close the door behind you, into a world that once existed. In here, it still does: it's like stepping into a mason jar of times gone past, of life in the 60s all the way through the 2000s, kept here to be shared and remembered.

-New discoveries of old.-

You listen to the music jumping around as you flip through records. The puffs of air that comes from each one falling onto the other is pleasantly musty. You are surrounded by shelves of cassettes, hanging band t-shirts, posters, and vintage dresses and shoes no one really wears anymore. So many bands, so many favorites. There is just not enough money or time to dedicate to this place--today, anyway. Ah! Over there are even more CDs to look through. You just don't want to miss anything important, don't want to miss collecting the products of any of your favorite bands. There are car decals and patches, 8-tracks and even 8-track players. Everything here smells like someone else's house, and you're okay with that. It's a personal odor, one that connects you with others who haven't forgotten.

-We are bound to each other by an addiction to music.-

I may feel at home here

The building isn't large and it's filled to the brim with people.
Voices, of course, pound your ears, and your senses are overwhelmed:
a sea of humans, young adults and old, so many faces
cigarette smoke, which is always there, whether faint or making its presence well known
and the music, just a placeholder, really, until the real show starts.
Then it begins, after you think it never will--lights dimmed, a little clapping, bodies crowding around, getting closer, willing to damage their hearing for some fun.
And there're the guys and girls who get right up close to the speakers, and you wonder if they're insane. Or maybe lucky.
And once the music starts, what a feeling of belonging you get, of moving to the rhythms, in unison with those around you. Nothing else seems to matter--the drinks, the friends, the backstabbers, last weekend, the traffic, homework--as long as you are here, now.
Personal space doesn't exist for this short time, and you realize it's okay to dance in a crowd. No one will look at you weird--they're too busy doing the same thing.

If I Could Say Goodbye

We were only supposed to have a moment,
yet, it stretched on so much longer.
The way that I felt, so much fun and desire.
I could not give it up.
Love grew, strengthened by each touch, each song, each day.
We had picnics, and walked through gardens,
but mostly stayed in your room.
Our heat lit and led each moment,
our bodies said all that we needed to say.
Yet,
when does love grow tired?
When did we learn that this wasn't enough?
Was it a kiss that didn't feel quite right?
It could have been a word said in passing.
Maybe it was simply that we tried too hard.
I held on too long,
wanting a dream you were unable to provide.
I am in love with you,
and will always have been in love with you.
Keeping your memories will be my pleasure.
I look forward to remembering,
and hope you do as well.

Some Thoughts on Lovers

To have someone is a big responsibility. To every day decide to love them, until you forget, and panic, wonder how to fall in love again.
How much meaning can be put on kisses?
I wish I could love whole and beautiful, for years at a time,
but there are moments when I get swept up and taken away.
Caught in the way someone else caresses me, in the way work can consume, and time can chew on moments.
Fucking in silence is like realizing you aren't breathing.
Can there be love here? Is this much too noxious?
Tomorrow I will see him,
to see if I can keep loving.
Is this possible?

Morning After

I called you, my old friend, and you were there for me.

A quick bus ride, a trip to pick up the pills we needed, to heal my hurts, to cleanse me.

Soup and Victorian fashion kept us full and thrilled all night.

We talked of our lovers,

of how this hurts for me.

Why is he so selfish? Such a child, wanting love

but not responsibility.

Never responsibility.

I love him, he loves me, but what else is there?

Why is the call of flesh so strong? It's lovely to move in pace with another,

but not with him.

With him my wonder lays in music, and love.

The time he sang me to sleep,

when we waltzed to a child's record player,

songs we have written,

letters exchanged,

our simple desires for the future.

My dearest friend, you sat and listened to me

as I spewed out words of hate,

you reminded me that I was driven by fear and pain.
Yet,

Who is he to hurt me so much?

He should have been the one holding me,

not you.