July 14, 2007
Signs that you were here litter the driveway behind my car. An empty can of beer, a fully finished cigarette and the idea of a note you never placed upon my windshield.I thought about you standing there. The street light above my car burnt out, the darkness a touch above average and your body leaning against my trunk � legs crossed at the ankles. Your head kept down, your eyes squinting against the smoke rising past your face, a slight sigh in between the memories of you and me and me and you.
I could have sat there with you. I could have hopped onto the back of the car, tucking my legs beneath me and studied you in silence. Your hair disturbed after a long day, your chiseled jawbone tensing, and the sound of the weight of your fingers bending the can within your hand.
I could have told you about so many things. The countless names we share in our phonebooks and how they�ve all asked after you � �Do you have his number?� �Do you know is e mail address?� �Would he mind if I called him up to say hello?� And I would ask you why you have not called them and wonder if they were ever real enough to care about anyway. I�d tell you about how your name is mentioned no less than once a week. It will pass my lips or someone else�s and, no matter what I�m doing or when I am, it always gives me pause.
I could have asked how you were doing. I would have listened. Forever, if you needed it, or for just a moment if that�s all you had.
But I never saw you, sighing in the moonlight, reaching out in silence. I just saw the signs that you had been here�
The burn mark in the linoleum.
The spot on my white kitchen wall which you leaned against, shifting nervously.
A misplaced picture, a poster, a birthday card (�You�re 3, you�re 3, you�re 3!�), a note I cannot throw away.
An empty beer can in parking lot and a fully finished cigarette � which could have been left behind by anyone�