a boring story

snuck out of my house and down to the cemetery to see him. this is the second time i'll be moaning and panting in the backseat of his shitty car in the last week. the gravestones lay their long stare straight towards us. i like to think the owners of the graves would have approved. their ghostly presence is cheering us on! whispering hints, thinking of a time when they could have snuck away and done it in the backseat.

afterwards, he takes the four AAA batteries, semi cold coke, and twenty dollars in gas money i brought for him. he plays with his phone, picking songs and telling me stories about his frat boy days, long gone now, even though he would only be a sophomore in college. the way he talks about it all, the way he laughs at his own stories, just cracks up, makes me sad. he tells me all of this, and i don't believe he thinks he will ever find happiness like that again. and maybe he won't. maybe if you live the way he did, just trying everything at once, and so early, that nothing else feels so exciting and fresh as it did that first time. maybe there is something to be said for living an average and unremarkable life. at least that way life still has the ability to surprise you in small ways, when you least expect it.

anyways, i'm not serious about him. i just get such a sad vibe off of him, no matter how much he laughs. i never know what to say around him. it seems like every time i do speak more than a few words at once, he gets annoyed. starts to look away, drops my hand. i don't understand him. not at all. but for these late, secret, cemetery nights, i don't have to.