mazzy star

There was this feeling of belonging together. The smell of tar in front of 7/11 on Santa Monica Blvd.
Our reflection bore the sign of melting into each other, four AM and the long and winding road and a heart of gold.
We were friends in crime, shopping for O-juice and sprite with only a blanket wrapped around my naked body, rocking the camper and the rich suburbian gardens, making love in the car, your fingers drawing patters on my soul.
I miss making love to you. I miss that sense of belonging. Of rocking the world together. How different that was from picking you up from Mel’s after all your other friends had left and you told me I was the only true friend you ever had as we walked up Highland from Hollywood Blvd.
It makes me cry, naturally.
Still. I think it’s strange you never knew.
I think it’s strange you never knew.

And I can’t write this to you. I can’t burden you down with this truth. With this sentimental piece of shit. This chain. That would tie your soul down just as it ties mine down, sometimes. Anchoring me to the ground. The wells of pain. Of knots in the throat. Of wild and raging hope. To rediscover. Recover. Recover the lost. The dead. The ghosts.
The moments. Retrieve the moments. Of lust. Of love. Of partnership and walking. Together. To the rhythm of our own drum.

It’s hard to breathe sometimes. The last moment of love. Flickering in the dark. It was Tony’s birthday. We were at Santa Monica beach with my family and you looked in my eyes and I felt the burn creep up my skin. I knew you felt it too. It was a deep split second that passed. We could have left them but we didn’t. You took my face into your hands but you wouldn’t come with me to the water.

I can’t call you.
Weigh you down with my voice. My longing. My loss. My love.