I will walk barefoot in the dirty dorm hallways if I want, because barefoot is only a stone's throw from flip flops. I will dance in the social service building elevator. I will write Johanna love letters even though I've only just met her. I will listen to angry girl music, even though I am not a girl. I will be angry when I want. I will dye my hair three times in a month. I will whisper Ani Difranco lyrics when I'm on the bus sitting behind you.
"I think I'm going for a walk now. I feel a little unsteady. I don't want nobody to follow me, except maybe you. I could make you happy if you weren't already."
I will watch you sleep, and accidentally wake you up (so sorry, I had to pee!). I will write lyrics on your spine (methodically, like some web I'm weaving). You will be the secret I keep, and when someone asks about you I will say "fine" and think "fantastic". I will trace your freckles. I will forget what you told me. Twice. Three times. Sorry, could you repeat that? I swear I was listening, you just mumbled!
I have just erased a page of something you'll never see. I can't write. I wrote about adultery and contagious smiles like HPV and thank-you notes and the angry March temperature and sarcasm. Those things are not cohesive. They do not blend to form a tasty, Vitamin C-filled smoothie. It's chunky and grey-ish... like the metal frame of an airplane.
Will you be happy on Saturday?
I fear you will.
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