Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Tijuana meet me.

I've been waiting at this crossroad for a really long time. Every five minutes or so I light up a smoke and slowly draw back on it. Hold in that sexy death and release the drift which forms, softens and shivers like last night's dream, like the memories of her. Fading fast and silver lined.

I'm staring down the dusty road for any sign of movement.
I tap my feet. I can't whistle so I grab a lyric and make it my own,

You never hear me talk about
one day getting out
Why put a new address on the same old loneliness

Everybody knows where that is
We built that house of his
And when he's not home
Someone else you know always is

I count the cows that graze in the paddock, I give them names. Gregory the Cow. Heh. I'm so used to laughing at my own jokes that's it's not even sad anymore. I see the sun rise and set, day after day, and I do not move. From time to time I think, "am I standing in the right spot? I've been waiting for a fucking long time, am I even standing in the right fucking spot? Why did I choose this spot?", but those thoughts pass and I look around and see how beautiful it is where I am, and how much time I have to myself, to think upon the things that need to be thought about. To think about cows and songs and cigarettes.

Sometimes I think, "Well, I'll give it another hour and then I'll head home" and at that moment I hear a noise far down the road and I know that I want to be here to see it, when it finally comes, I will be standing, alone, the only one to see it as it comes, here, right to this very spot. Then the noise fades away and I am left again, standing alone on the side of the road.

Tapping my feet and singing a broken tune.

To pass the time.
To pass the time.

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