of fire and freshness

“No amount of fire and freshness can challenge…”

One foot out of the shower

I remembered, perfectly

as if watching the scene.

The stage—what used to be,

the other half of my bathroom.

The oddly colored checked tiles

were now an endless maple;

the wood floor shined and smoothed glossy.

The ceiling rose to a faraway height

and the light dimmed to a yellowy darkness

broken by the convulsions of strobe lights.

Where the sink was, now stood

a towering speaker box

on an anorexic tripod.

And I, wet and naked

one foot in the shower

dripping scented water

all over the slippery dining hall dance floor.

You were so close to me

swaying in front of the shaky speaker

an inch, maybe closer.

But I could barely see your face

in the fractured dimness,

in my cracked memory.

I hid under my cupped hands,

but you didn’t notice me.

You were looking into my eyes,

younger, more aware.

The eyes I used to have

that saw you—they had the right to.

I was so close to you,

swaying with you in an ordinary suit

and a tie that matched, on purpose,

your turquoise dress.

Or was it teal?  aquamarine?

This was the only time

you curled your hair that way…

Brown curls, brown and light brown;

curly streaks tickling

your creamy cheeks.

The freckles, so light, almost imaginary.

Phantom freckles haunting your fair face.

Your fair face, your just face.

Equality—

either side of the summit of your nose.

And what I found in your sleepy eyes:

I saw the moon, whole and glassy,

low in the still bluish sky through my windshield.

The sun, a burning match-head

sinking into the parkway in my rearview mirror.

I saw the crowd of our classmates,

violently bobbing blades

of angst-grass thick and static.

They were making too much noise

in my small bathroom.

They made a ring around us, a solid fog,

trapping us in a cramped Mexican standoff.

The Girl, The Boy, and The Wet & Naked Man.

It played on as I remembered.

You tripped backwards

on one of the tripod’s errant legs.

Your knees buckled, your back straightened,

you kept good posture even when falling.

Your head tossed back,

your eyes confronted the ceiling,

your arms waded in the helpless air.

Naked me, no less dry,

watched you falling and didn’t move.

I did what I always did in this memory,

since the first time when it was event.

I caught you.

Quickly you lied down on my forearm,

looking up at me, my lips curled into a smirk.

Swift, so aware, invincible.

Your faithful mongoose.

Your date to The First Hurrah.

We danced on.

Away from the speakers,

away into the fog, into the cloud of our classmates.

Away from me—ever more naked,

no less dry,

But now very cold.

“…what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.”- F. Scott Fitzgerald

photo:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2090/2235602174_08a97b781c.jpg