the blood soaked past of captain starfighter
i miss you, truly and deeply. i hate to think that i may never hear your voice again. i’d like to talk about things, a lot of things, but i feel like perhaps you’re just done. and that’s okay.
everything seems to be ending, all around me. last night i sat out on the porch; for a good hour or two, everything stopped.
a warm night in the place where i grew up; the lonely yellow streetlight, sidewalk that carries the monsoon back to the earth, so many eyes looked but never lingered, thick green grass where she would sit for younger years. island of earth where lips first met, sad songs played in waking hours, friends here and gone wherever, where she would borrow that book forever ago, the place where we looked up and saw stars, the portrait of impermanence, summer in suburbia.
i loved her once, a long time ago. hands clenched beside a dry riverbed, soft ring around the moon. now we’re good friends. things are different. don’t see her much, but she’s happy. no one remembers, and no one cares to, and it’s okay, because no blood was drawn. soft lavender becomes a distant memory, happily revisited, however infrequently.
i talked to her today. well, not her, another; it doesn’t matter, they’re all just lonely voices to anyone who reads this. i don’t know if it will be the last time, she’s leaving. well, not really. it’s okay. no blood, no blood. and that’s okay.
there are no words, there is no description, but anyone passing through would be struck by that feeling. the feeling that these places had been witness to things both terrible and beautiful. grass where my younger years still lie, now stained with blood. put to rest beneath the stars.
and in my head, it’s all gunpowder and starships and bloody hands and skirts, planets left untouched, cigarette smoke in grimy brothels, polaroid photos of one who cares, betrayal by a princess in a field of flowers, space helmets with cracked visors, a woman with a galaxy of freckles and hands for suffocation. and me, starfighter, the man with one eye.
it’s one way to cope.
storytelling is something distinctly human. it brings me back to myself. wishing for death, disregarding self preservation, is the ultimate departure from the human condition. return is essential. or so i’ve heard.
i suppose i hope that this matters to someone.
even if it doesn’t, hell; nothing’s permanent.
and that’s okay.