tonight you will run away with me. you'll grab your childish luggage set, prepacked in subconscious anticipation. you will have already found what you can't live without, and you'll have already stuffed it into three little rectangular prisms. you've written on your life as three boxes, permanent marker labeled: BOOKS and CLOTHES and EVERYTHING ELSE
you will sit on the curb outside your house, absorbing the chilled and solid concrete. you'll be positive that you left behind four or seven objects you love and need, and you won't care. your mind will be too full of nervous questions, fast and rushed and lost behind your eyes. with your sweatshirt zipped up to your chin, raw-red nose taking in and exhaling vapors of midnight, you'll look left and right every time you hear a sound. you will throw your head up instead of taking your cold fingers out of your warm pockets as it's just as effective in brushing back your hair.
you will pick yourself up by the lungs and let yourself sharply vault back down and hunch over. you'll check the time and for once, you'll be kept waiting. i will be at my house. i'll be scanning my room one last time, heart palpitating hard into my temples. sharper breathing, lurching steps, and finally i'll close the door. i never close the door.
with my backpack and guitars and one too small duffel bag, i will know i left far too many things at my house, not my home. i'll throw it all into the backseat, next to the gargantuan tupperwear box with PART TWO scrawled on the shell cover. i'll breathe for the first time as my back thuds against the cushioned leather seat. my head will be heavier than i ever remembered it, even though it feels saturated in helium. the steering wheel will be hard to grip; my hands made of sweat and apprehension, anxiety and resolve.
i'll have a hard time making it, fidgeting and blinking furiously. stiff necked and dangerous, my body won't relax until i reach your house. the radio will be off and the mirrors won't be adjusted. when i stop, you'll put your three similar suitcases in the back, next to my tupperwear container of books and in between my guitars. you'll collapse into the car wordlessly.
we'll sit there, stalled for a few minutes. dizzy and full of a confidence in the center of our chests, we'll be scared together.
you will turn to me and say something insignificant and profound. you will say something that i'll only be able to match in retrospect, the embodiment of l'esprit d'escalier. you will breathe in and say:
"it took you forever to get here"
and everything will melt away, like it always does. comme d'habitude. as my immediate response, i'll fall from my front, relaxed and placated. mollified and quieted, i'll start the car.
i won't be able to resist smiling when we drive away.
