blink 182 wrote a song one time / by laurel

The nature of missing someone is a tricky juggernaut to nail. I realized this as the sun had settled low in the sky, peeking through the Venetian blinds and spreading weak splinters of light over the mottled carpet. The day was without breath, a shallow and insignificant passage of time. Minutiae piled up on itself like dust. The mumbled “hello” from a roommate just awoken from her nap startled me.

I feel jumpy. Jumpier than usual. Or perhaps just more aware. I feel acutely aware of every everloving detail; the temperature, the weather, the presence of people, the absence of people. Yet my sky is pale right now. I simply know that the color is not quite right, as though short of breath and lacking in an indefinable something.

Yeah. I realized that last night because I felt like a walking ghost. [permeating] through the crowds of people unnoticed, diffusing in and out of conversations (I am eavesdropping). It is those times when more can be said by not talking and where peripheral vision is a greater tool than eye contact.

It tends to settle mainly at dusk. I usually notice the sky having color, but being empty. Inexplicable. You simply know it, when the color is not quite right. It’s pale. That’s what it is. The sky is short of breath, and so its tint is slightly lacking.

He always had a way of grasping indelibility and placing it into reality. I replied, I suspect that in you I find an empathetic friend. I need the open road, I need a musician to sing me the blues that the sky can’t seem to grasp right now. I need a friend, but no talking. Just being, and driving, and trying to find color in the sky.

A breath of fresh air. That’s what I need. I felt it as I was driving from the airport after landing in Los Angeles. In spite of that ever-present and clichéd smog, I tore across the open freeway, eating shadows as I came to them. I breathed deeply, devouring palm trees, a white suburban, two or three buildings, a brokedown Toyota. Pressing on until I came to rest and exhale.

These are the sorts of things I’d tell him if I could. I’d personify shadows and light and philosophical ideas, compressing them into binary code: 010001101110001 for “I see the light slowly fading and you’re the only one who understands.”

But he’s not around, at least not for a couple of months. He’s away; exploring the great, fabled frontier, blazing his trails and taking deep, deep breaths. Maybe that’s the nature of missing someone: An indrawn breath, but unable to exhale. There is an expectation of releasing all that carbon dioxide, yet it does not happen. Perhaps that’s the nature of simply being with someone. Sharing the same space and breathing, together.

Whatever it is, my lungs are full. And if he were hear (I say this to mean not only if he were present, but if he could listen), I’d tell him so. But until then, it is merely a thought hurled into the ocean, only to be returned by the ebb and flow of the next incoming wave. (To which he’d probably make a comment regarding my propensity for over dramatizations. More likely, he wouldn’t, because he shares this trait, and perhaps that is precisely why he is so missed).