I can’t write about love.
Every time I try, the message is obscured.
For example, I did want to focus on the first girl I cared about, someone who I imagine hates my guts now. Yet, all I can come up with is a narrative, of how I turned away and she was left in the dark.
. . .
Maybe if I meet the perfect person, I can discover a set of words and images waiting inside me. This past summer, I started dating again, going out and sometimes, hovering above the ground.
I’d remember to scribble down this feeling (to describe the smell of hot pretzels and burnt rubber).
“What are you doing down there?” she’d ask, while I was back on the sidewalk.
Squinting into the sunlight, I’d always respond, “What are you still doing up in the clouds?”
. . .
One night, while touring the skies of Trenton, a girl whose middle name I knew, asked,
“So, what’s the goal?”
“To write the greatest love poem ever told.”
“Hmm. And after that?”
“To keep on doing what’s necessary.”
I laughed. She laughed too.
We ended up watching over the apartments that looked like they’d crumble, and we decided to part ways.
I did want to keep trying for something more, as I smelled burnt gasoline and fresh bagels.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
She looked up and smiled in the moonlight.
She left me a pen and pad on the street before walking away,
before I glided down.