• Vol. 05
  • Chapter 12
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I Have to Go

It looks like we might just fit together after everything we've done. Like puppy dogs – we are puppy dogs – here in the park with the gates locked but it's still warm, still summer – why can't it always be summer? We upped and left that grey soggy island and moved to a place where we thought it would always be summer – didn't we, meaning me, didn't I accumulate knowing out of three or four summer trips thinking it would always be like this. And here we are. I can hardly speak your language but it looks like we might just fit together – I mean didn't we just prove our necks were delicious, the entire organ of our skin was delicious, like puppy dogs on the grass, sniffing and licking, no place too much for sniffing. Did you hear that? The guitars are playing for us, have they too been locked in the park – why can't all good things be locked in the park with us and why can't it always be night, always be summer, always be us realising we might just fit together? Serenade us, person with guitar, turn this moment into a beginning. This is the beginning. We have found each other in the park in this city that is now home – we are home! Did you feel that? A cool breeze, but I don't want to get dressed, don't want to move from looking at you looking at the stars – don't move! - can you hear the cars in the distance, can you hear steps on gravel? We are puppy dogs. We are mountains. Don't you love that moment when the guitarist stops and you know he's kissing someone, taking a sip of someone, I mean something, deciding what to play next? Can we shout out requests – I am the walrus! - no, not that, can we shout out requests to the heavens, to the guitarist? Each breath threatens to disrupt this moment of us almost fitting together, turning from rock to mud, if only we could melt into each other. You need to go – tengo que irme – someone always needs to be the first to say it as the guitarist begins to tap the body of his guitar, the beat that could be the intro, the drumming that could be the march, the rhythm that could be panting, could be the breath of puppy dogs rubbing dry grass off their hides as they prepare to find a way out of the park.