Dear Frankie...
letter 19
DEAR FRANKIE,
Your hot breath in my ear, condensing moistness in my cold flap. Your sweating hands sliding everywhere, mine clinging to the flesh on your back. Our bony hips scrapping each others, our breaths short and deep like we had just ran a four minute mile.
And then there was the music. Not the porn moaning and screaming but the real deal raspy grunts, and Mr. Waits singing softly in the back.
And from a window across the lawn I watched you undress
I remember now. The Tom Waits song. It was “watch her disappear”. How awfully ironic. I’m watching you disappear.
It’s strange that everything would come back to me in a dream. Just like in the song.
I’m just writing to say I’m disappearing too. I decided to move to New York with Shawnie.
We can now forget about the sex and talk about how strange it feels to pack my life into a bag. I keep feeling I must pack the most uncanny stuff because it’s what will end up being the most useful. I never thought about how I’m really attached to the strangest of things. A map of the railroads, an old mirror that belonged to the grandmother I never met, a collection of used books I got from multiple garage sales, all of my records. The records and the books must stay, the rest can come along.
Then there’s obviously sentimental stuff: drawings from my brothers and sisters, pictures and shit that has no value to one but me.
You packed your life in a bag and left.
I have packed mine and your kid’s future in my bag and just feel like fucking choking on my drool or something. You got to say goodbye, you get to comeback, you get to call. I get to watch myself disappear.
I guess I never wanted to finish high school anyways. I guess I never appreciated my family enough, I was always the black sheep. I guess I always hated goodbyes.
Let the city lights blind me then.
From the last dinner, A.
Your hot breath in my ear, condensing moistness in my cold flap. Your sweating hands sliding everywhere, mine clinging to the flesh on your back. Our bony hips scrapping each others, our breaths short and deep like we had just ran a four minute mile.
And then there was the music. Not the porn moaning and screaming but the real deal raspy grunts, and Mr. Waits singing softly in the back.
And from a window across the lawn I watched you undress
I remember now. The Tom Waits song. It was “watch her disappear”. How awfully ironic. I’m watching you disappear.
It’s strange that everything would come back to me in a dream. Just like in the song.
I’m just writing to say I’m disappearing too. I decided to move to New York with Shawnie.
We can now forget about the sex and talk about how strange it feels to pack my life into a bag. I keep feeling I must pack the most uncanny stuff because it’s what will end up being the most useful. I never thought about how I’m really attached to the strangest of things. A map of the railroads, an old mirror that belonged to the grandmother I never met, a collection of used books I got from multiple garage sales, all of my records. The records and the books must stay, the rest can come along.
Then there’s obviously sentimental stuff: drawings from my brothers and sisters, pictures and shit that has no value to one but me.
You packed your life in a bag and left.
I have packed mine and your kid’s future in my bag and just feel like fucking choking on my drool or something. You got to say goodbye, you get to comeback, you get to call. I get to watch myself disappear.
I guess I never wanted to finish high school anyways. I guess I never appreciated my family enough, I was always the black sheep. I guess I always hated goodbyes.
Let the city lights blind me then.
From the last dinner, A.