a little nothing

It was only six words, but they burned none the less. A hand left casually on the small of the back was more distracting than what was ear drum rupturing from just inside that broken screen door. That single glance and that single raised eyebrow and everything that was so certain and so sure just moments before no longer exists. He can't hold still; he fidgets and gestures as he speaks, and every intonation is a little lyrical, as though he can't help but vocalize in pentameters and AB rhymes. His entire presence and body weight (which is significant, to be sure) shifts back and forth, from his heels to his toes, and back again, in some kind of two step (ha, ironic) and everyone in the vicinity is drawn in to that motion, as it's infectious and all encompassing.

A blaze of light overhead caught us all off guard. There are certain symbols and ideas that I can't escape. Shooting stars, burning cars, the number 24, multiples of three. This wretched life of outcasts and miscreants still has me tied to it, no matter what I do to escape. There is no other place that feels like home. Don't sit on the couches, don't touch the walls, hover over the toilet seat, keep both eyes open, get knocked ass over tea kettle, bass so loud you can feel it rattling your rib cage, an aggro machismo that is at once annoying and attractive.

Shooting stars. Satellites. The number 24. My own youth and wasted life. Promises of what was, what was to be, and what may never come. No more lost boys. Try and keep up.