We were driving around aimlessly at 2 a.m.,
Not really caring where we would end up.
Andy complaining about the rising gas prices,
But nonetheless continued to drive,
A single strand of cobweb danced in the moonlight,
Hovering over the dashboard in front of me on the passenger's side,
A silvery strand of hair from an old crone maybe,
Or a string from Artemis' bow.
In the backseat,
Typed feverishly at your laptop,
Trying to keep the connection with Andy's CD player,
Allowing the bellowing tunes of Flogging Molly and Dropkick Murphy
To blast from the speakers.
I tapped out the beat on the door handle,
With Andy and I both shouting along with the lyrics.
And it can't get any better than this--we three musical comrades.
I laughed giddily from either lack of sleep,
Or having just a little too much to drink that night,
Or maybe both--
But maybe I was really just glad that we left that Karaoke bar,
Getting tired of hearing that Irish bloke
Screech out another painful rendition of "Wild Rover."
Just glad to get away from her.
That pretty young DJ with the perfect figure,
Gold, flaxen hair, blue eyes, and graceful dance poise.
She with the Siren's voice, who could sing anything,
Calling the attention of many a young man.
She, whom I thought I could escape,
When she left to go to school in Boston.
But no, she had to come back,
And had to attend my same school.
Had to sit behind me in Music Theory.
And had to grab you.
"You're like friends," you urged me, "You go way back."
If you could call high school "way back."
I wish it were further back than it actually was.
Out of sight, out of mind.
And I wouldn't call us friends exactly,
More like a couple of lost souls, who only understood music,
Who could only communicate with each other through music.
I was and never could be like her.
I, who made my mum scream in anguish,
When I butchered my hair, chopped it off,
Transforming the muddy, wavy, rebellious locks
Into short and spikey, black thorns.
I, with hair the color of a domestic violence victim--black and blue.
I, who hid over the years behind the numerous body piercings and tattoos,
the dark lipstick and eye make-up, trying to take the attention away
From the mechanical device which prevented my body to dance
Like her--a water spirit in the moonlight.
I, who could only free myself through the pages of my closest comrades--
Shakespeare, Burns and Frost;
My closest confidants--
Yeats, Poe and Lovecraft;
My truest friends--
Stoker, Byron, Shelley,
Elizabeth Gaskell, Austen and the Brontës;
My sisters of poetry and prose— Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton,
Eavan Boland and Emily Dickinson,
And my dearest companion--Phillip Larkin;
While Ani DiFranco, Tori Amos, Dar Williams
Or some underground Emo band
Was serenading me through my stereo.
But then you had to look at me that way,
With those dusky eyes—
Those eyes I could just drown in and be forever at peace.
I just don't want it to get any better than this—
Just you, me, and Andy,
Driving around without a care in the world, without a purpose—
Just three simple and sincere, honest to God friends.
It can't get any better than this.
Damn you! Why did you have to look at me that way?
With those eyes?
Coaxing imploringly in my ear,
Making it impossible for me pronounce two simple letters.
What is this sadness and longing in my heart,
Causing me to feel like a doomed Eponine, in Les Miserables,
That fated messenger between her beloved Marius,
And that ignorant, innocent little minx, Cosette.
Does this mean I'll get to die in your arms, too?
It won't get any better than this.