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Song 2 | Aug 04 2003

Forgive me for the cross-outs. Once, tripping, G cried because we had to go back. The cross-outs are like going back, they’re like when G said he’d never trip again because of how it felt to remember it.

When the music started, I uncrossed my legs and opened my hands. I do this in the night sometimes, in moments of partial wakefulness. Changing positions, I discover my hands partly clenched, so I flatten them against the bed or pillow. To be certain, I often slide one under the pillow and lay my head on top.

This time I sensed you beside me. At first I thought I was in bed, on my back, and that you lay to my right, listening with me. But then I saw we were floating. It was as though we were floating on our backs on a lake, that’s how our bodies moved, a sort of slow ripple, but instead we were in a room, floating in air, our arms suspended at our sides.

When we left the room, we talked about what had happened, but what we talked about was not what had happened. I wasn’t sure if you realized.