Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds' "Jubilee Street" is playing as I write*
I remember, all those years ago,
the first time I moved to kiss you,
to hold your face in my hands,
an expression of tenderness,
and you telling me that you hate it
when anyone touches your face.
Had I been then,
who I am now,
I'd have recognized
that shutter closing
behind your eyes.
Had I not been a shell
of the man I should have been,
twisted and distorted
by the same horrors
that haunted you,
maybe I'd have been
strong enough to understand.
****, these days I'd laugh
in your Dad's face and wonder
why he had to hit you in order
to feel like a big man, why
he had to act like a drunk hardass
when I came to pick you up for homecoming.
There for a while,
you and I had something,
something that might be termed special,
but that feeling drowned
in a hot tub in a single night.
I heard rumors and murmurs
of you as I stumbled through
my life since that night,
drug abuse here and abusive men there,
and the random facebook messages,
the one ****** up phone call
when Rachael and I asked about your chickens.
And now, so many years and
memories and loves later,
I still wonder what I'd do
if I ever saw you again.
You're not that far away either,
and I promise you,
drunk as I am,
that if you called right now
I would in fact burn down
to Orlando for you.