by T.S. Eliot
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralyzed force, gesture without motion
i met a man from Vallejo, this past spring. i was watching the clouds puff up like the chest of an eagle before he stole my aloneness clean from under my nails and interrupted my silent solitude with his name.
why are you out here this early?
i like smelling the air right before the sun colors the sky. that’s when its the wettest; the sweetest. i longed to say…
only when he convinced me to smile did I notice I was skeptical of his approach, but i found familiarity in his accent, so i delighted in his company. we walked down Ocean Drive, towards the beach, towards the sun.
We studied how differently our lips moved, and how every age line nestled in our palms chafed the same; deep and ragged. We carved our confessions into the moist sand, until the tide pocketed them in the secrets of her waves. We spit our dreams and aspirations into the air until our desires tasted like sea. We found comfort in our respectful, judge-less eyes. We found solace in knowing we’d never see each other again. and then we forgot each other.
We shared something in those moments, something intangible and forgotten. but i meet so many boys, so so many boys, it was good to know i met a man once.