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Sep. 16th, 2003 09:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kudzuvinesIt is funny to me
Finding your newest outpouring of words and thoughts and hopes and feelings and dreams and wondering
How is it that we always seem to lose touch?
I dreamt about you the other night. We were wandering Portland together and some horrible cataclysm had occurred the night before and thousands were dead, and we walked around the rubble wondering how we'd managed to miss this catastrophe while we rearranged your room in your newest house that night, which of course was still standing. But the rest of Portland (though it looked nothing like the real Portland) was smoking and ruined. We walked what was left of the streets, quiet dismay expressed each time we found more dismembered limbs and blood and glass and concrete. We found a wall where someone had pinned an arm that you were supposed to touch; to experience this death, if it hadn't already touched you. Horror spread across our faces, and then my alarm went off at six thirty to tell me that I wasn't able to run the race that day, only able to attend and cheer for my teammates (who I've only known a month). I thought about you all day, lonely for your face and your smile and your calm and your wisdom. That night I went searching for your friend, if only to see something that you'd seen recently. He and I spoke for two hours, and then we slept in our seperate rooms, less than three hundred meters from each other and I dreamt of a dying parrot who had human emotions and only wanted to be loved, but couldn't speak.
So I called you tonight, because I miss you and I love you and you are the second oldest friend, really, who remained so throughout everything, EVERYTHING, even my most frightening twists and turns and idiosyncracies, listening to my pain even when you were hurting far more than me. I never really thought about at the time, and once I had, it was an international call to tell you how sorry I was that I put that on you, and half-heartedly offered to listen to you (and I know you told me you didn't say anything to anyone), and we lost touch then.
But we found each other again.
Now, I am in college and you are in Portland and we never, never talk.
And it is time to talk again.
Finding your newest outpouring of words and thoughts and hopes and feelings and dreams and wondering
How is it that we always seem to lose touch?
I dreamt about you the other night. We were wandering Portland together and some horrible cataclysm had occurred the night before and thousands were dead, and we walked around the rubble wondering how we'd managed to miss this catastrophe while we rearranged your room in your newest house that night, which of course was still standing. But the rest of Portland (though it looked nothing like the real Portland) was smoking and ruined. We walked what was left of the streets, quiet dismay expressed each time we found more dismembered limbs and blood and glass and concrete. We found a wall where someone had pinned an arm that you were supposed to touch; to experience this death, if it hadn't already touched you. Horror spread across our faces, and then my alarm went off at six thirty to tell me that I wasn't able to run the race that day, only able to attend and cheer for my teammates (who I've only known a month). I thought about you all day, lonely for your face and your smile and your calm and your wisdom. That night I went searching for your friend, if only to see something that you'd seen recently. He and I spoke for two hours, and then we slept in our seperate rooms, less than three hundred meters from each other and I dreamt of a dying parrot who had human emotions and only wanted to be loved, but couldn't speak.
So I called you tonight, because I miss you and I love you and you are the second oldest friend, really, who remained so throughout everything, EVERYTHING, even my most frightening twists and turns and idiosyncracies, listening to my pain even when you were hurting far more than me. I never really thought about at the time, and once I had, it was an international call to tell you how sorry I was that I put that on you, and half-heartedly offered to listen to you (and I know you told me you didn't say anything to anyone), and we lost touch then.
But we found each other again.
Now, I am in college and you are in Portland and we never, never talk.
And it is time to talk again.
