The Ghost in You  [22 Dec 2004|08:21pm]

A man in my shoes runs a light, and all the papers lie tonight
but falling over you is the news of the day.
The angels fall like rain,
and your love is all of heaven away.
Inside you time moves and she don't fade,
The ghost in you, she don't fade.

The race is on I'm on your side, but hearing you my engines die,
I'm in the mood for you, or running away.
Oh the stars come down in you
And love, love, love, can't give it away
Inside you the time moves and she don't fade away
The ghost in you, she don't fade.

So don't you go, cause it makes no sense and all these talking supermen
just take away the time, just to get it away.
Ain't it just like the rain
Cause love, love, love, love, is only heaven away.
Inside you the time moves, and she don't fade
The ghost in you, she don't fade away.
Inside you the time moves, and she don't fade
The ghost in you, she don't fade away.

The man in my shoes runs a liar, and all the papers lie tonight
That falling over you is the news of the day.
And love, will not fade away.
And love, love, love, will not fade away.
[The Pschedelic Furs]

They would meet under the streetlight at the end of her road. In November, 
the light was always reflected by the slick pavement, and the air bit with 
the puppy teeth of oncoming winter. The neighborhood was characterized by 
brick and cedars, with cars lined endlessly along the cracked narrow sidewalk.

Her coat was black and heavy, long and buttoned in two rows of round wood. 
Her chin length hair whipped her face as she ran to meet him, heart jumping 
five steps ahead. She could see his matching grin – white teeth beaming the 
streetlight – from a block away. Sometimes she’d stop, tease and savor, 
creeping slowly the last few steps as his arms reached in anticipation of her 
warmth. He always held his fingers out separately, ready to dig into wool 
wrapping and silk hair.

He was taller, his jean jacket a bit too thin, but he insisted it was fine 
even as his cheeks bloomed and his bones began to dance. His hair was piled 
like brown twigs above a thin and unmistakable face. Pupil and iris merged 
into twin spots of penetrating darkness. Despite the abruptness, his look 
was friendly.

Sometimes they just stood, no words exchanged, holding arms and shoulders and 
gazes beneath the streetlight. Sometimes they walked, a block or two this way 
and a block or two that. Tennis shoes slipped and squeaked on the shining 
pavement. While walking, they may speak of their days, his school and hers and 
the brothers and sisters and friends and meal times that neither had seen in
the other’s world. They only knew these few streets, and that intimate corner, 
with the streetlight overhead.

She thought of him in school and would pen poorly spelled love notes on torn 
out paper. Friends would tease and nudge, but it was clear they wished they had 
someone to write and meet on the street corner. He would tell only his closest 
mate, the one who did not laugh at sentiment and the description of her walk, 
and he spent French class composing short poorly translated poems for her.

When she stopped coming he kept waiting, though January bled into February. The 
rain turned to soft white powder. He thought about her hair, and the wooden 
buttons, and the necklace he’d nicked from his sister but he’d loved it for years 
so really it was quite heartfelt. She had said she loved it and insisted he help 
her fasten it on. The sparkle of the small stone was dim in comparison to the 
bright happy flicker of her eyes.

In March, he stopped coming, and by June he’d forgotten all about the corner and 
the streetlight and how she always wore skirts to meet him, even if her knees 
knocked from the cold. Occasionally he’d furrow his brow at the smell of her 
shampoo, but he did not remember it as hers, and he chose not to question how that 
particular vanilla smoothness would generate a gentle sickness in his stomach.

It was a particularly cold winter.