I have two memories. Me, sitting on your battered couch. By the time you come back to me, to curl into my lap, my mind would already be in that calm dreamscape and time wouldn't exist. There would only be you and me - and the way that our reckless energy somehow finally twisted around each other, pointed in the same direction. There would be no more you, only mine, and us.
The other memory, there is no two of us, but only four of us. And for the rest of time, it can only be this thing. Really, it's the exact same story. Only now, instead of being scrawled in crayon on a subway tunnel wall, it's carved professionally into stone, on a star, tattooed permanently into the sky for as long as sky exists. It's the same story - "Amanda and I, we're a forever thing," - only now, people believe us.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Happy Anniversary, baby...
Kurt left a letter for me, this morning. Part of it said: