fileg (fileg) wrote,
fileg
fileg

old journals project

Because of a conversation I had with Terry last night, and some of the comments about how my muses smell.
(I was 16 here - introspective and sense obsessed, and as you can see, I had given up capital letters and was already writing in a pattern I still find it hard to break out of. I would not be 16 again for any money on the planet)


december 28 1968

streetlight globe. spheres of light. forgotten moonlight walks over abandoned railroad bridge coated with spring's thin veneer of love (and summer's almost thick) smelling the greenness of the night, talking quietly and slow and watching the words drift like dandelion fluff through the twilight.

I met you in almost november, the last russet gold thirtyfirst night, the cool autumn air practicing for winter. you crushed brown leaves beneath your feet and I told you not to torture the dead. you did not laugh - you would now.

suddenly it is winter and getting off the train you pressed my fingertips against your lips. the cold burns my face and makes my colour high, but drains all the colour from your face and freezes the light in your eyes.

how i long tonight for spring and the long slow drift into beach weather and summer nights.
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