Foundations

Tinnish noises fall from the speakers that desperately need replacing over the scuffed brown floor of the roller rink, reflecting, *I* think, the hollow noises that still spring forth through voice and pen like harsh laughter at a statement that, you realize a second too late, was never meant to be a joke. Once upon a time there was a place to ice skate on the island in the middle of the dirty brown Elkhart river, but time or tiredness or financial trouble or who knows what wore it down to its very foundations, and now all one can find there is dirt and plants and mosquitos whining incessantly past our bare ears. You have to wonder, really, whether the emotion invoked by those worn-out and abandoned places where teenagers used to hold hands is one of listless romanticism or pure, wistful depression. There is the sadness at such a dreary image, but there is the joy at feeling such sadness. And you - yes, silly girl, you - you know what I'm talking about. I see you standing there staring at the overgrown foundations with a sparkle of what you want to be a tear waiting in the corner of your eye for you to muster enough feeling to force it out, because we all know crying is a hell of a lot better than the tormented in-betweenness I see you living, always drifting between the shores but never quite settling on either one.