Third street was an HOV exit.

id been mistaken by instinctually exiting right onto seventh avenue. who the hell came up with left exits? 

the last time i was in this part of town i was coming to see my own art. i ended up staying for art brougt by others. on my way there i had gotten lost a total of 3 times, parked illegally in a CVS and walked into a coffee shop to ask for directions, and ended up in the wrong event. but i got there, and i stayed for the art brought by others, and it was worth it. 

but that was at a different venue, a different road. so when my gps advised m to "take left exit on third street. take a U turn on 3rd street," I added 15 minutes onto my arrival time. good thing i left Gilbert way too early. ill still get there on time. 

i was very early. i wandered in, legally tweeking on prescription medication mooched from my frineds, surprisingly confident. my shoulders are high, my saphire hair tied up and falling, my stiff red jeans that dictated my flexibility, and heavy leather souls smacked the concrete floor, jingling silver buckles with every anxious step and shift of weight. the croud was at a gacious state, each person a partical with space to bounce on the walls and hold no shape. more empty bodies piled in, and we condensed and liquified, flowing and moving and agreeing on every movement. 

i some bodies werent empty though.

jaydens laugh was water between the sand of our still condensing room.

liquid particals condensing

condensing

condensing. 

condensing

it wasnt february's breath that froze us 

but the fact that we had become a solid.

hot and screaming and out of breath and dancing and embracing and tossing and lifting and falling and catching. i wondered if they kept the ceiling open to give the pace a more grungy dirty band vibe. i spoke out loud surrounded by people whos names id forgotten and people who remember my name. chained down by nothing. 

but not before the wainting. anticipation, when there were still gaps between the sand and no Jayden's laughter to fill it. i swayed, made eye contact, apologised, complimented, asked names, recieved names, pacing the four corners in the square foot of space the condensing left for me. 

he threaded his hands through his hair, culded them, as if he were holding himself together. as if he was falling apart as he nodded and blamed and erupted. his other arm extended out and up, wedging past damp shoulderblades and risen arms alike. tattooed on his wrist was a flower. it couldve been a bitterfly, or just a triangle, as it was distorted by violet lights and shadows. he emptied his chest cavity into the lyrics. 

i was a boat made of cork with no anchor. i floated among the stagnant, the rooted, the anchored. it all made too much sence.