stretchy pants and a black and white striped crop top, cinched
always comfort over fashion, monochromatic over bold
i catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror
i chopped my hair off, something like, eight inches
something like, the third step of a breakup
the fourth is probably vodka and a sweaty basement
i remove the royal blue, 99 cent ice pack from my broken toe and,
fearing nothing, shove my feet into brand new Doc Martin’s
collecting my hair back into a low bun, we walk out the front door
i skip down the cracked, concrete sidewalk yelling catch up! and
if i miss any of Northwest Fox’s set, i swear, y’all won’t live to see the light of day!
there’s silence, my boot scuffs the sidewalk as i turn to walk backwards
cars fly by, headlights casting strobe-like shadows on ryan
his mouth cupped with both hands how’s the toe?!
it’s always the same from the road, a seemingly normal, shitty college house
but when we walk through the front door into the garage
bulb string lights line the wooden walls and lead us to the basement
vibrations from amps and voices creep up the staircase plummeting into my chest
we run down the steep cement stairs, met with an expanding and shrinking crowd
they move as one, as if music is the lateral line, a sixth sense
attached by strings and chords, all things brassy and filled with reverb i’m sucked in
and swallowed whole into a mass of faces i’ve never known, yet, somehow, have never felt closer to
we curve through the crowd, weaving our way toward the heart
of the house, toward the voice, the bass
where the blue and red show lights glow and exchange
our sorrows for euphoria
my body takes charge, reacting to the sounds in ways I never would’ve thought of
elbows brush up against my arms and i grab someone’s hand
he spins me around to meet his gaze i like your shoes
we dance like we know each other, like
we lived, breathed and bled these footsteps long ago
when all things organic and natural would melt into place,
back into the earth, like we planned on it
when the music’s over, we flood out from all crevices of the house, like ants
sitting in the driveway on the cold cement, i look up at the stars and they stretch
and bend together like someone took an hour long exposure of the night sky
and just left it there, projected into the universe, for us all to admire
i close my eyes i think his name was cam
-Catherine Buckley