yo, that's wack if i'm not the baddest


profile * old * mail * fucking sign it* or how about a nice note? you go forward / i'll go backwards


seeing rome from your airplane window, shrugging when the stewardess asks you something in another language. i sit two seats back, watching you look at your reflection in the window, wince, attempt to adjust your hair, then beginning to talk to self. you look like my grandfather but remind me of new years 1954. i can imagine you with a smart haircut and a suit, dancing to bing crosby or perry como with a girl in a dress, grabbing her in her apron, flour flying everywhere. she's wearing red lipstick and laughs when its smeared on your lips.

she left in you in '64, a career woman. you never saw her again but you still have a bottle of chanel wrapped in antique paper for when she comes back. you were clearly handsome, very cary grant like. you were the talk of your town, eyes like mirrors and a face like a movie star. when you say what you said it almost sounds foreign to you, like a script that never amounted to anything other than paper.

d-land