“Did you see those catahoulas?”
“Some wild-ass, crazy bitches.”
“Their eyes, they’re like different colors.”
“I’m familiar with the breed.”
“God, they’re beautiful.”
“I don’t believe you appreciate the metaphor.”
Some of it is obvious. The drawl. But the longer I’m here, the more I listen, the more I am inclined to believe in ghosts. Things happen here in the shadows. Everybody knows the truth but no one’s quite ready to acknowledge it. Let alone say it. God forbid out loud. Maybe I’m reading too much into things. Maybe the eggshells I hear crunching are only because of love. And I’m listening a bit more intently. Intensely. Intensity. I’m writing this prose on a phone, one finger at a time and I appreciate the deliberation this allows. Normally the words don’t just flow. They spew. They insinuate themselves in the most unlikely of places. That’s wrong. Water comes to rest where it might flow. It’s not trying to be; it sorta just is. That’s one of those lessons you sometimes accidentally happen upon. Unless, of course, you are like me and don’t believe in accidents.
Returns. And haunts us with his pain. Are we going to be punished? Shall we pay for the sins of Hophni and Phineas? Who pays? Someone always pays. Where is Hannah to sing her beautiful song to God? Who might save us from ourselves?
“Just spit it out. Spit it out”
“I sort of think we’re over”
“We’ve been over for awhile.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’ve been trying to be a nicer person.”
“Fuck you too.”
“You’re a drunk.”
“You’re a punk.”
“I’ve been one since I’ve known you.”
“I thought you would grow up.”
“Well, I’m never not going to be punk. I have it tattooed on me for god’s sake.”
“Yeah I know.”
“Do you think I would ever take it off? That is me.”
I don’t know about god, I just want to see her face. Please, lay your hands on me. Wake me up. I’m tired of sleeping. I need to rise.