Bayside and Taking Back Sunday.
For a few hours
we were the main characters,
forgetting how small we are.
I was her sugar baby,
sweetened by proximity,
and we called it fate—
that careful lie lovers tell the stars.
Even the South Florida heat
seemed willing to let us have this one.
sweetened by proximity,
and we called it fate—
that careful lie lovers tell the stars.
Even the South Florida heat
seemed willing to let us have this one.
The sky holding back
it's daily summer violence.
Bayside opened the show
like a beautiful wound,
the kind of music that reminds you
there are people walking around
with entire graveyards hidden in their chests.
We waved at Nick, the bassist—
whose done my podcast twice—
ghostlike recognition
between stage lights and distance.
I wanted them to play longer,
but that's the problem with joy:
the moment you notice it,
the moment you notice it,
you're already measuring its ending.
as the club soda sweated in my hand,
then somebody collapsed in the crowd.
it always arrives
in the middle of the song.
But EVERYTHING continues,
which might be the saddest thing
or the most beautiful.
Fireworks erupted above us
without warning—
white flowers,
brief stars,
little explosions against the dark.
For a minute
it felt as though the night
was showing off.
without warning—
white flowers,
brief stars,
little explosions against the dark.
For a minute
it felt as though the night
was showing off.
We got shirts,
and got the hell out of there
on our own terms.
The night grew complicated
in the simplest way,
and later than a long time,
but worth every minute.
I wanted the moment to last forever.
Instead it has become memory,
and memory is greedier than time.
So I preserve the fireworks,
the music,
the ambulance lights,
in this poem,
with the brief terrible knowledge
that the moment (and the music)
is all that matters.
