I fly out on Saturday, book a short gig of old friends and old soft places to be. I spend a few days living out of a carry-on, cold coffee breakfasts and the rest of the time trying to gauge the progress of my life since then. The week will be a barometer for success. I might get off the plane with a straw hat and a pocket of pesos, waiting for some challenge that may never come. It will be the barometer that asks; have you said anything viable - done anything heartfelt - mended anything wretched. I will answer stiffly, with jet-lag in my voice. I'm still sure those might not be the best days of my life. They might not.
Libby dropped me a message a few days before my birthday. It comes up now even though she will be no where near my landing strip. It comes up because I did still hover my fingers over a reply, turned to an insult, and then becoming just dust on the clutter of thinking. I have all this time, and a fancy trip to prove you wrong.
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Choking on stagnace... it's how we roll up here.
Your face was pleasing, your company was better.
It's colder... and you're gone. I wonder if there's a relation.
*ponders*
-Chase
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