Its summer before the cast comes off. Were always eating, talking. Shadows on the lawn of empire come longingly, forewarned. I put my name on the ground. I look up. She drives me to the beach.
“I don’t know what to say to you.”
I nod.
“We are leaving the world behind.” Its dark but it is not dark. Each step tells me the ground hides under these waves and on out to the end of the sea and forever. I have never had to explain things to her. “Bring yourself.” I tell her. Bring yourself because I cannot.
“I will stop everything if you tell me you are my brother.”
“I used to need to Justin. And you don’t have to stop anything.”
I tell myself I will start smoking. Those things, those worlds we were, I am not the greatest thing in the sky anymore. This is ok too. We talk about the woman she loves. We tell weeks of stories in wordless noise and gesture and laugh. The city brings us back, places us in ourselves and us in it.
This always ends in a driveway, outside a door, practiced over decades only in that it comes again and again, the opening of a door, the noise, the TV, the relative, the hurried news, the look in the fridge, the smell of the laundry on the floor, the look across the room at her where we both still hold the universe of worlds we travel even now, in this each others eyes. We will always be ourselves. Can never be something else. I love you Michael. I am letting go. Good morning. I miss you.
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