She would be happy to know that all four glasses were being used then. Poured merriment, each one sitting in a socially ritualistic manner, equal distance from the next.
The glasses were a birthday present from her. When I said so, Chris rose his glass and said, "to absent friends."
"To absent friends," we chimed, and the glasses all met in the middle of the circular table.
Through years of every stage a friendship can find, she's given me much; she's given me me. And then she left. She made me a stronger person, and now that she is not near, my soul feels starved.
As long as I've known her, she's always lived in the same yellow house.
Changes, changes, changes.
Inner demons of my past are resurfacing. I'd shoved them away for so many years, I thought that I had succeeded in deluding myself of their existence. But they appear now as trenches that I need to either climb deeply into, or leap across, if I think there's a chance I can jump so far.
I want to talk to her, to tell her about all the things that she knows about me that are not true anymore. I need her to know. I need someone to know.
But, I do not even know.
It's night, and I'm driving, and I pass the road that leads to her house. As long as I have known her, this road has led to her.
I feel I am about to burst, I am so tired of second-guessing myself. I feel I am about to find the nearest stranger and ask them if they want to run away to Portland and sleep in a hotel. Drink a lot, and tell secrets. I feel this so strongly, that the idea does not seem weird, and I do not feel as though someone could even pass up such an offer.
I feel I am about to burst. I know that such a proposal would have most people concerned, and scared of me in my frantic desperation.
As long as I have known her, this road has led to her. A part of me wonders if the paved street could somehow recognize the spirit of its function; if it could somehow take me to her now. But I don't have that kind of faith, so I pass it by.
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