"do you want to have dinner?"

it was a simple request. or a plea.
but even then i fought the urge to
run to the edge
but the black jeans have stains on them
i already said this, but memory is like that. a string coiled in my shoes. or minty fresh breath.
but i like the string.
weaving back-and-forth.
a simple black thread. tears welling up.
weaving through us. me and luis.
luis and i.
post spring-break.
and he was wearing a black tie.
but that's not important.
a realistic point-of-view: i thought of him once. art drove me to him. and it's driving my family crazy.
i just want to be as free as my hair.
all my mothers nostalgia. tore her apart.
and left in it's place a rose. tinted reminders of adolescence.
beautiful but it'll have to rot someday.
and all of this dinner talk has made me realize the grand picture.
i'm theatre.
and being young is just reahearsal.