october08...

I'm listening to a song that I can imagine watching you sing. Your voice deep and raspy and an excellent mimic of the sounds that came out of your stereo. Your bedrooms were always spacious, with tasteful carpet littered with interests half forgotten. I used to lie on your bed as you did things, cluttered things up more, or finished things, or cut things up, or whatever you were doing that week. You moved with the grace of a carnivorous animal. You looked at yourself from every angle. You never left the house unless you knew how you would look from front on, sideways, behind. The light used to come into your room completely uninterrupted by curtains, and it never used to wake you up. You'd sleep through the sunlight. It used to wake me up immediately. I'd be lying there in a nightie I had borrowed from you and I'd look at you sleeping and you would look so little. I still have those nighties. Remember when everything you owned was orange and fluffy? Remember when you wore green every day? Remember when we'd drink champagne from milkshake glasses? Remember giggling, in a state of complete confusion, running through city streets? Me neither.