She caught the hopeless when she watched them on a Tuesday afternoon, waiting for her bus in the school yard. She watched them hold hands and held herself. She started to cry, because she'd be 15 soon and all she could make of love was a paper fortune teller with 1's, 2's and 3's and yellow and orange and pink. She watched their legs, the shades of the denim pressing together, the tan of his arms on the light pink of hers. She watched their foreheads touch and the headache began. She knew what it meant to catch the hopeless, and to think about nothing but love.
He caught the hopeless between the sides of the stall in the boys' locker room. He put out his cigarette and zipped up his pants. He started to cry, a little, a little... just to cure the thirst of his eyes that lingered from watching all the pretty girls. He'd be 16 soon, and he was losing his head. All he could make of love was a few pick-up lines, the backseat of a pick-up truck and some pick-me-up drinks. His elbows hit the tiled wall and he looked up at the lights. They weren't what made the bathroom hot. He knew what it meant to catch the hopeless, and to think about nothing but love.
It comes sometimes like little hearts, and sometimes like rain in the morning. It comes sometimes like little knives, and sometimes without any warning. To catch the hopeless is to want it either way: to just want to be someone in love."
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Catch the hopeless