boundtothesea:

PIG&ROOSTER

There once was a boy named B, who ebbed and flowed similar to the sea. When the tide was high, his mood was low but as the waves crashed, no matter how drunk he was, he could land his rooster and pig feet directly on a board and stand up tall. He used to claim he’d be dead by 27, but I never believed it. 
Not when he could walk on water the way he did. Not to say he was was a holy man, in fact, he was much of a sinner, but everytime I return seaside, he’d be there- two tall cans of beer in hand. And when I’d tell him my dreams, he’d tell me his- of costa rica, taco stands, and loving the right girl all the way to western mass and back. 

He never did know how to spell, which meant every word he wrote held double meaning. Most would think he meant one thing, but I would always read another. I was always cracking codes with him. He spoke lines of poetry without realizing it and when I’d tell him so, he’d shrug it off and keep walking.

We always had the same car, and even when he’d dissapear for months while we were teens, I’d get in my car, and I’d know, him the same. Going different directions, of course, but somehow eventually our cars would be parked on the same road again. There he’d stand, covered in paint and sad, and exasperated we’d say, “Fuck, we need to get out of here.”

And sometimes we did.

I escaped first- nosedived into a gay life of winters and academia, nonsense I couldn’t explain. 
He’d stay in those bars, head down but with a contageous laugh and everyone but him would say, “I think I really love that kid, what’s his name?”
And for a second he’d lift his head, with a smirk and say, “It’s Auggie dear, I’m not from around here but would you like a beer?”
And when he finally left we were all so perplexed, well besides me- always dreaming beside him of wacky nights and calmy steady days. 
He’d say, “Temo, darling, I think I’m not okay.” But I’d try to explain, occassionally when I could, what spring meant here. He’s just in winter- and we’d all agree, it’s his potential we all need, so close to keep us all going. 
I’ll never know how to surf, B. does though. I do know, though, how to survive with a drink in hand. I tried medication and became slightly duller. He tried drinking and became slightly more bitter. Either way, we’re experts at bad times. Sometimes, I thought the sea held us together, but it’s something less tangible than that. Sometimes I see it as being sad art kids- we’re the ones who people say- “You look so beautiful, but so tired today.” Tired? I’d laugh and think, I’ll show you tired.
I retired to bed while B moved lower down the coast. Each time we’d think we found peace we’d trick ourselves out of that. 

You’re not going to love me down the line. I’m tired, and drunk, and a fuck up with no life. 

But the sad ones always caught me in their fishing lines, B. especially. I understood it somehow, and I only knew one response: Keep going.

And we did.