Trajectory

Late shift, night drive, calm skies; lights on the road keep following me home, so I don’t need a chaperone, I’ve got a GPS on my phone, but its battery’s almost dead, wasted traveling on closed roads, in cold circles with a warm friend, pedestrians, and locals. I go to weddings, less to impress, and more to dress up like a Reservoir Dog, a Mr. Brown trying his best to be a Mr. White, but I’ll always be more Quentin, and never be Keitel, sitting at the kiddie table getting weird looks from a four year old, who doesn’t wish to share his markers or his coloring book, as I watch my best friend get married, and later make a toast; head table’s full of Rum and Coke.

Calm skies, and I wonder where you are, probably looking out at skyscrapers from your balcony window. I don’t like living in cities that aren’t near home; it’s a fear of getting lost in the fear of the unknown. Seat belt strap makes me feel like Leonardo, but I’m no longer a leader, my katanas rest on the dashboard. I wish Canada had more flavors of Snapple. I hope wherever you are, that you’re looked after. Calm skies, and I no longer wish to wonder. You’re an Earth angel, I’m the Devil’s advocate, trying to lay the ground work, only to find out that the game is rigged; we were always a Super Mario glitch, didn’t help that you never blew on it, so I pause on your screen, and then I quit.

A bandaged nose will always remind me of Chinatown; that’s not racist, that’s just Nicholson, that’s not creepy, that’s just Polanski getting inside my subconsciousness. You never heard me, and I never listened, we both needed therapy, but we liked all the dramedy. I’m in love with the first lady with all her no’s and all her maybe’s, she says she doesn’t want to lose me, and I tell her she doesn’t have to worry. I’m not the same me as last year, I have the same dreams I once feared, but I’m different now because she’s near, and reality is better than it appears. It’s better than twenty year old’s showing off their passports, while I’m showing off my asshole personality; it’s complex, because I’m probably the oldest looking dude they ever met.

Run wet fingers through my hair, but no one’ll see it, that’s a relationship that stays between me and my mirror, where I look at me, but I know that he’s not there. My trajectory was tragedy until you inspired me to not care. You know what’s really hard? Reunions. I’ll probably never get the cast to come together from my favorite show. Now I’m left to watch old wedding videos, where the only special effects are the time and date on screen, alongside colorful text next to familiar faces no longer found in digital frames, but confined to negatives tucked away in albums from the past. People always want their outcomes to be better than their output on what will always be their outlook of the things they now outgrow. I used to read the lines on your hand, now the only lines I read are formed on tables by my bedside, atop unfinised scripts and unfulfilled wishes.