(decorated days)

My brain is the slow cut along the young man's spine between the shivering arms of his nervous tattoo.

Parlor tricks for sunday perils.

Soon the boys are going to be leaving me. no more saturdates. no more sundays stinking long and hard of the weekend's residence on the rusted orange couch i've called my own haven (with the cat, of course) for years now. no more late night singing almost tunelessly to white trash heroes and punk rock girl. no more old reliable loathing on the roof in any season wishing we had more fireworks. no more knowing i could always find a place on washington avenue where there would be cold beer with warm friends and an old spinning scrabble bored i only beat once.

Shit.

Things really are about to get very fucking different. those boys are some of the best i've ever had (even if sometimes i'd rather wield the business end of a sawed-off their way than listen to one more specious fucking argument on what an asshole i am for allowing myself to still rank among the folks who believe there might be something akin to a diving fucking being pulling the frayed ends of string theory). they helped me through two great heart breaks. countless hangovers and even the odd existential freakout that made me think twice about ever sitting down to write or step out of the house again lest i find myself faced with being alive.

I will miss them.

Fucking terribly.

And at the end of what was, for the most part, a damn near perfect one i can't help but wonder when i'll fully feel that realization. when it will hit me that i have to surrender those fuckers to portland just because.

And i hate that i probably won't cry.