Walk

__ we want __ be.

Lilac on blue. Purple paisley pants were lying on the floor, and I was stretched out on the bed. No pants on. No socks on. Just a pair of boxers and a t-shirt. The sun was shining through the open window, and the wind was blowing in. It was brisk but not chilly. I had the comforter pulled up over my mouth. There was a clock on a nightstand, and a computer on a desk, and pictures of far away buildings tacked up on a make-shift board that was nailed to the wall. Books at the end of the bed. A couch near the closet, and a television sitting dusty and unused in the corner.

I heard noises floating down the hallway. Singing and showering combining to form a percussive melody that lingered and floated around the corner into the room. As I laid my head back on the pillow the notes became more clear. E's and A's and D's and major scales and optimism and hope. Outside the birds began to sing along.

What that __ could __.

I take five, ten, twenty heavy steps up two flights of stairs into a fluourescent hell. I know there is no class, and I know no one is going to be there. But still, I trudge on, just hoping to catch a glimpse. Maybe ___'ll be there waiting for me, with ___ head down, staring at her lap, drawing meaningless designs on white paper. Scribbling ___ life away. I tell myself that I don't want to be here, and that I don't want to see ___, but my feet keep dragging me forward. My legs have a mind of their own. Nothing's going to stop me.

I look past the plastic shrouded water fountain into the hallway. I hear nothing. No one is there. I walk to the door and see the sign and open it just a crack, and still no one is there. I turn around, thinking that I heard footsteps, but am merely greeted by the dull roar of a concrete floor and the sounds of clipped newspaper articles flapping in my belated breeze.

___ ___ war ___ get you.

In the car, on the street, in the house, in the air. What does it matter? Everything's going to be okay, okay? Everything's going to be just fine. I wrote a song and scribbled a note and put it in a box and tied it up and put it on ___ doorstep this afternoon, and now I'm smiling and excited and nervous about how ___'ll take it. Maybe ___'ll be excited. Maybe ___'ll write back and say, "thanks for the note and the song and the words and the chords." Maybe it'll come out right this time, and I won't look like the fool.

Maybe I'll walk home with ___ this week, arm in arm, hand in hand, bolstering each other against the winds that blow between the buildings and down the streets and rustle the leaves that get in our hair. I'll trip and ___'ll laugh and we'll both scream together at people we don't like, though we've never met them, and don't intend to. Now, it's pointless. We don't need new people. We need each other, cause without each other we're nothing.

It ____ ___ protect you.

I don't shave and I don't bathe and I'm beginning to think that I won't want to work when I get out of here, and that I'll be fine just sitting on a box, shining other people's shoes in some nameless airport terminal where the windows are boarded up, and no one's allowed to carry anything on a plane anymore -- not even clothes. You walk in, you strip, you go through the metal/gun/knife/dirty bomb detector and they stick their hands up your ass, and they feel around and once you get the all clear they give you a solid white robe, one size fits all, and they shuffle you to your gate and it's first come first serve for seats, and you're late, so you're crammed in between a fat guy with a mustache, and a hippy with a head full of lice. Neither one is smiling. Neither one thinks you're even there. Just smile. Everything will be alright. ___ never cared anyways, right? Just keep telling yourself that.

Sir. Sir? Can I shine your shoes, sir? The shit stench of the bathroom next door used to make you nauseous. Now it feels like home.

_ ____ be _____ with you.

And there are moments that will never be.

Sunday morning papers spread out on the covers as we lay together, arms interlocked, toes playing tug of war with the little pillow that we kick around in our sleep at night. The remote is on the floor, the phone is off the hook, the sheets are messed up as we tussle and fall onto the floor, ___ hair scraping across my chest as ___ smiles and interlocks our fingers and pushes me down into the carpet. "Give," she screams, and I give and ___ laughs as I turn ___ over and kiss ___, and the tea in the kitchen is spouting off as the clock strikes two o'clock. "Your mom didn't call today," ___ says as ___ stands up, her arms brushing back the hair that has now woven itself into my memory, though it never even existed.

__ found a ___ dance __ a ________.

The blare of the television screen tells me that it's now late, and that it's cold outside, and that it's sleeting, and that I better bundle up. I forgot to make my coffee or wash my stocking cap or buy gloves for my fingers because no one reminded me, because no one is there. Now I've got to scrape the windshield with a credit card, and feel the slushy snow and sleet seep into my shoes through the holes near my toes, and I'll be cold at work all night long, knowing that no one out there is thinking about me, and that no one will be here when I get back, and that no one is going to find me some day when I'm lying face down in the grass on my front lawn because I've been living alone my entire life. No legacy. No legitimate heirs. No tangible possessions. Just a tv dinner stand propped up against a ragged lazy-boy in the middle of an empty family room.

We bought a new bag of pot.

Shoes pile up in the hallways, as sounds flitter in and out of each and every room. Video games, talking, listening, eating, slurping, sipping, smiling, delighted faces with red cheeks and apple colored tips of noses that need to be wiped with deluxe, ultra-thick tissues that don't break and don't hurt. And there are arms and legs and toes and fingers and hair and teeth and everything gathered together to watch the screen flicker on happily into the evening, and they laugh together and make fun of each other, and they make ice cream sundaes as the night wears on and the kids wear themselves out running around the basement with blankets stuffed down the backs of their shirts, pretending to be superheroes and supervillains and super people doing super things. They are picked up by nine and de-robed by nine-fifteen, and re-robed by nine-twenty, and tucked in by lights out with their mouths wide open and their little, innocent snores filling up their little, innocent lives because they are immune to anything and everything that anyone and everyone says or does or thinks or implies. And there is purpose to the day ...

So let's blow it.

... yet somehow desparation always fills his nights. The single serving soup bowls with the plastic spoons and the flimsy noodles never fill him up or tide him over to the next meal which is hours away because the rent's behind and the bills have not been paid, and there are people with hats knocking on the door, with briefcases in their hands and scowls on their faces, and glasses that they keep pushing up, but he knows they're only going to act like he's let them down.

"Is your ____ here?" they'll ask, heartlessly, cruelly, cause they could never understand someone with no one. It's impossible, they say as they walk away and glance back and shrug their shoulders. "We'll see you next week," they yell from their cars with no rust around the tires, and no scratches in the fender. "Please answer the door next time."