this imploding heart

You can't keep a secret but you keep a diary anyway

There is something so fucking magical about pockets.

I love your pockets for their gum wrappers and matchbooks. My fathers for his electrical tape bits and flat wide pencils. My mothers for her scented mini tissues and Necco Wafers.
Like the way a certain smell makes you fall back in love with someone you haven't seen in years, certain bits of debris, combined just so, puts me in old pockets.

Oh, you can't imagine how a harmonica and stopwatch make my heart turn over and all at once I'm riding in taxi's across town before the sun comes up with my tall socks all twisted around my legs. How a chunk of sidewalk chalk and 5 colored ponytail holders make me long for the clutch my legs were too short for and that tape that had Aerosmith on one side and Janis Joplin on the other. How my breastbone warms a little at guitar strings and Dave's cigarettes and we are always, always in the car and moving at the speed of sound, but I never know what's playing.

When I make the odd appearance in that dream you have where somebody is getting married and everybody you almost forgot is there, will you remember me in pockets of bobby pins, black permanent makers and crumpled programs?

Posted by Sonya at November 18, 2004 03:04 PM