Crinkle

I think I left
a bit of me behind
in your car
so many hours, year-long hours
transformed into a single panoramic memory

the color of it was always good.
there was a dusty sheen
that reminded me of a job well done
a cowboy hat nested
filled
totally at peace
painting a little too thickly over the truth

like oils on tracing paper
creating a stain that just
gives
gives
gives you away

but the interior was far more important. far more prevalent
in my childhood notched-stick calendar
the tan, the beige, the taupe
the soundtrack to the peaceful mediocrity to which we aspired
well, all except you
Truth Bringer, Purger of Injustice,
impaled by your own flaming sword.

it was always so soft to the touch
by the door with the sunbright window
and resting my eyes often became
a harmony of even breathing; beautiful little polar bodies all in sync
around you, you ferocious lighthouse

the button is always in my mind, an inconspicuous pathway to the magic of flight
it always felt, always felt that we were taking off
to glide into the land of chills and lightsabers
where we weren't allowed to be enemies any longer

the little tinkly sounds of colored crayon imaginings ever lusted after by the palms of my sticky, sweaty hands
the annoyance of the mints, a scorned offering with no alternative in sight.
tiny plastics everywhere, hiding in the scoopholes with a lego and a beautiful little metal something
the slap on the thigh when my chatterthoughts got to be too much
that was the only time you touched me
for a long time.

promises of queso mixed with that song that made the silly one rock back and forth, and made the serious one think of skeletons and kissing,
never mind what the loud one thought.
the endless possibilities of old trains and foam blocks and museums, museums, museums
endless ways to see and search and become aware of the world
that was not yet nipping at our heels
sitting on top of that stupid hump in the middle
that I became too big for on the day I was born,
eyes going blank and bleary with countless vague, high frequency thoughts
that led you to notice my silence and think
"Maybe there's hope for this one."
the bickering of loud and silly little animals, interrupted by a wall of utter concentration
and occasionally elbows.

perhaps it was there in that American-dream-townhouse (housecar of the housewife househusband impossibility)
so calm in its average male pattern baldness
but not without a certain secret sheen
that I learned to ascend
to the quiet, screaming plane of hnns and mms
before it became necessity.
where I learned to fall in love with my dreams and split the rent with my fantasies
and where you finally noticed
that I was learning to hide from you,
you and that thighslap hand.