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Numonic Device 79
Friday, February 13, 2004He's been in my head so much these past years. Longish white hair and a young face. Not too young. But I don't know if the age is earned or lived. Long and lanky, he shows up at the oddest times. I can be thinking of someone else, and he's there. I could be writing someone else, and he's there. I can be alone, blissfully alone in the walls of my skull, and he comes. But I'd never met him before. Until I drove past him once. Angel wings embroidered on a black denim jacket, guitar case in hand, walking a slow lanky walk down an endless road. He's not the type of guy you pull over for, but I did, driving off the side and getting out, leaning against the door before I walked down the white line and back toward him. He stopped walking, waiting for me, as I came. It's cold out, colder by the hughway where the cars turn the air bitter and there's no break in the wind, but he doesn't seem to feel it. He just waits, head tilted, eyes alive. A few feet from him I stop. "Could you use a lift?" I ask. Up close, I feel a surrealness, to see him in the flesh and not in the dream. "No, sweet heart," he says. His voice is gentle, like a carress from the only person who ever loved you. "That's alright." I looked around. It's a long way between exits. "Are you sure?" He nods and smiles. "Thanks, tho." I nod and back away a few steps before turning around and going back to the car. On the road again, I think about getting off at the next exit then getting back on again, so that I could go past and see him once more. To make sure he's the man in my head, and not an illusion. I keep on driving. Permalink Cindy scribed this at 3:21 PM 0 comments |