Lover, you should've come over, instead of playing ultimate frisbe
I left my house too late to catch my flight back to New York and the idea of not returning to my life of servitude was a happy idea. The hands that touched me these last few days are sustinance for the next month. The transfusion of love they gave me would be enough for a lifetime, if I could only stop bleeding.
I left my house too late to catch my flight back to New York, but mama said I was just afraid of returning to adulthood. For some reason, though, the clock stalled and I boarded that damned plane. The flight was five hours long, and after nine o'clock they dimmed the lights and lowered the window shades and just as I was beginning to think maybe I have what it takes, I remembered my mama's other words, "living in New York is so you can kill the dream of New York, and come home." Why don't I want to live here? Why would I rather be planning my costume for when we troll the ped-mall for the masquerade and the block-party? Why would I rather be with Maggie and Tylere, and the whole rest of the world can fuck themselves? (Except for the eighty-billion people who showed up Saturday night to rock my face off)
The real question, though, is not how did I manage to make my flight when I tried not to (thanks to my brother for getting a parking ticket while waiting to make sure I got in), but who in God's name decided to play Jeff Buckley on the fucking airplane's sound system?! I used the headphones to watch an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond (I don't think I would love him if I knew him, to tell the truth), and I flipped the stations once before taking off the headphones and doing a little writing. "Lover, you should have come over," swam into my already-swirling stomach next to beer and coffee and remnants of conversations ending with, "I promise..."
"Too young to hold on and too old just to break free and run. Sometimes a man gets carried away when he feels like he should be having his fun."
Who played that, as the plane began it's descent, and my heart sank? Who was that girl in tears and in the aisle seat? I hope they all just thought I hate flying. Well, they're goddam right I do. New York smells awful, nothing like the M&M factory. And it's not fun being picked up by a driver: I just wanted a friend who would hug me at the baggage carousel, and in the car say, "I've been waiting to play this for you," and then pop in Johnny Cash's cover of Depeche Mode's "Personal Jesus" or something.
I left my house too late to catch my flight back to New York, but I'm not the one in control, for one of two reasons.
