I am home. I am sitting at my parents' kitchen. Soon I will go down to Bloomington to see my old haunts and my old friends. I want to walk in the woods and drink beer. I want to remember who I was when I walked the rooms of Sycamore and Ballantine Hall, because I still am so much better off than that person in so many ways. It may be crazy to think this, but I wonder if anyone will remember me. I wonder how many people I will run into that I know.
I guess it hasn't been so long. Just a year ago, I lived there. But so much has happened since then, I feel like a different person. I've lived a lifetime since I've seen some of these places and talked to some of these people. These sentiments aren't unique, I hear things like this all the time, it's just when it's you it all seems so special and epic and wonderous. Just like a love story.
Last night getting on the plane again, just like back in June, thinking of boys in Boston, imagining them shrinking to dots as we rise into the air. I hate that this stuff takes up so much of my mindspace. Am I a romantic, OCD, too female, or a little bit of each? Maybe I'm just human.
And I think why this boy? Why cry and smoke over this boy who changes and runs and locks himself in his room for weeks, who hides and who avoids, who acts so much like a child when he is far too old to do so? Am I so weak for a smell and a smile and that strange, steady, gleaming eye-contact? I know there is a boy I once called my partner who is drinking over me now. I know there is another who rhymes and draws and chain-smokes, whose hands shake, who wears long sleeves to cover the scars on his arms, and he says he loves me, he's sure. Why can't I love him who took me to his house and fed me eggs and peaches?
Everyone says I deserve someone who wants me, but I have to want them too. When the fuck is this going to coincide? I said I am not one who is meant to end up with someone. I know that's a youthful, fatuous thing to say, but hey, I am what I am.
I look back at this poem I wrote back in March, the start of my Boston Poems. I didn't even know what I was doing, but it is about these three boys, my connection to them which was instant and palpable on that Tuesday night. A poem about drinking and smoking and art and youth and love. I think it is a poem that needs a sequel.