guerillas

My boyfriend Peter’s like smoke, he’s elusive. He doesn’t always carry his phone. There’s a crosswalk in Tokyo, it’s in all the movies. The light changes and hundreds of people walking in different directions meet - but they don’t collide - they make room for each other, flowing around each other like water. Peter and I make room for each other. Then we come together, and we make something. We’re of such different textures - we come from stark counterpoints but somehow, we mesh. He’s the first person I go to with an idea because I trust him, and I think he understands me. He’s my secret weapon. His advice is a coin I’m careful with. He’s gone through the long slog and achieved a dream. And he did it poor. He fought a guerilla war with almost no resources. He lived in crowded spaces, existed on Ramen noodles and saltine crackers, taking any job to cover. He’s practical, goal oriented and he can be unsympathetic. He’ll whisper, “Nutup up, tinkerbell - you’re such a baby,” but there's a supportive energy to it - and he’s usually right. He heralds a reality I’m not always used to. Anyway, he was smoky tonight. I couldn’t reach him. Sometimes we go over a week without talking (I'm not always reachable either) and when we do, it feels intimate and victory-like. . . Song for this: Come in from the cold by Marc Broussard One Two Three by Hooverphonic