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avril 2008

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cezanne

oh, instincts are misleading...

they don't tell you what you know you should want...

It was a different song that I heard tonight, but what the two have in common is an intense nostalgic association with place, and time, and thought.  The lines above will always be the chilly walk home on the cours mirabeau and the shadow of bare platane trees.  The song he sang tonight is being lost in thought, sticking to the bench in the thick heat of the subway platform, pressing the button to start at the top.

Walking into the station at 72nd street tonight, I thought that it will probably be a long time before I don't come here and think:  this is where we kissed that time, the first time that night, a reassuring, anticipated kiss. one of the best. it made me giddy as I walked down the stairs to wait for my train.  I can't remember the last time I was made so purely happy by a simple moment like that.

As much as I'm not completely "okay," as much as I'm still angsting and processing (not him, but myself, and the way things are, and the way I want them to be) and trying to figure out what to do with myself at this new juncture...it's a good memory.  It makes me a little wistful, maybe, but it's the aftertaste of something sweet. A desire not to replace that memory, but to create new ones.

I'll probably always half think of that moment in the same way that the salty smell of my brother's front hallway will always bring me back to being fifteen and an eager, anxious  embrace after three months apart.

It's not that there isn't happiness in other things, cause there is, an amazing amount.  But memories like these make that sense of lacking more acute.  And it's always worse to want something when you know what you're missing.

Comments

heh. 72nd street station. that was the last time we kissed, me and Sandro that is, and it was one of those life-affirming moments where i felt confident that everything was going to be ok because the happiness spilling out of me was so pure and so concentrated it had to last for forever. that was the last time i ever saw him. it was one of the best singular moments of my life, as so many with him were. of all the men i've been with, he was the one i most wanted to keep being with, yet i rarely talk about him, i guess because it just hurts too much. i doubt i'll ever take a train from 72nd street without thinking of him. i know how you feel, that dull, empty, aching sensation that starts in the pit of your stomach and spreads outward all the way thru your fingertips. love hurts.