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Some Cheap Flowers and a Pack of Cigarettes
Written by Nicholas Arthur
Edited by Jana Miller
Back Cover Photo by Kathleen Trombley
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Some Cheap Flowers and a Pack of Cigarettes I remember the sound of the cellophane jostling against the seat as I went to pick you up. I remember an argument dissipating, then getting worse. Some cheap flowers and a pack of cigarettes won’t make us fit together any better. We’ll spilt at the seams anyway, dragging each other down either way. But that day held some significance to me, however slight and misplaced it now seems. I was going to make things better and things were going to change. They didn’t and I’m sorry.
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Sleeping Late We woke up late. Neither of us had to work, waking to sharp sunlight stampeding through open curtains and October chill. Strong black coffee that peels the skin off my tongue, your cats stumbles between our legs and your laptop. Gentle twee pop hops about from tinny computer speakers. We made out and talked as long as we could, letting the hours amble by without a second thought.
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For Beginners I remember when “waiting� collapsed into awkward fingers frantically trying to unhook clasps and buttons. Quickly torn plastic latex smell hovering in every direction. When our lips moved in tandem until everything was warm and complete. Minutes slowed, taking their good, sweet time as we got a bit closer. Encased in a bliss I never wanted to slip away.
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Your Parent’s Cottage You asked if I wanted come by and I did, dropping everything for no reason in particular for a stretch in small town quiet. Driving down pitch black country roads, trying to keep my eyes fixed ahead while my right hand searched for the directions. One foot tapping out Charlie Parker wailing away, the other carefully pushing the accelerator. High beams leading down roads I had never been down, but hope to go again.
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At the End of Jefferson Late at night cricket chirp echoes out down the trail by the water. Intermittent firefly light and cell phone illumination, otherwise nothing. Weird critters run across the trail odd noises from the tall grass. My hand in yours clammy and awkward, but content. We walk slow through sweltering July, and then sprint back to the car when the bug bites grow too frequent.
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Out of Town Burnette’s Pomegranate burns heavy, blossoming into light and relaxed. We’re sitting at my friend’s kitchen table, talking about where we’ve wound up. I space out, getting lost in the images my mind makes from the scratches in the table. I drove past that house a few days ago, new owner’s cars in the driveway, new flowers waving bright in the garden. I could feel the years weigh heavy, driving around on a Sunday with nothing to do.
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After Work Belly full of diner food and cheap coffee, we wandered around till 2 in the morning. Holding hands and kissing down quiet streets interrupted only by creepy honking horns.
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Words, Words, Words I can’t change the way you feel, I can’t change the way I feel. We’re moving apart and we’ll be completely fine. I woke up an hour or so before my alarm went off, streaks of sunlight peaking through the curtains. A good cup of coffee, a good book paying bills, watering the plants gathering up the day. Things continue on a bit hollow, but stay in motion all the same.
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4 a.m. Bike Ride We got too stoned before the bonfire, cackling weird and too loud under uncomfortable side glances. We rode our bikes back, pedals moving easy in the middle of main roads. We made it back getting lost in one another, wrapped up in heavy blankets, bonfire smoke still stuck in our hair and clothes; quiet. I didn’t want it to end, but it did. I woke up and pedaled through empty streets, save for the rusted-out minivan making screeching stops. The foot falls and the sputter away to the next house. I went back to sleep haphazardly for an hour or so wishing I had stayed a bit longer. 9
Mixtape #1 I spent so long on that first mixtape. I tried to string together like-minded melodies, haphazardly stitching something coherent. Start over: It’ll be too obvious. You’ll get freaked out and move on to someone who pretends not to care or at least keeps it together a bit better. Maybe it should all instrumentals, only hinting at… No, then you’ll think I don’t think of you all the… I mean sometimes. Either way, start over again. Hours later a disc ejects that I quickly scrawl a semi-clever joke across, hoping that you stick around for a bit longer.
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Possibilities Months after we split up we went to the movies in a large group. Dull crunch of popcorn, tennis shoes sticking to the floor and lifting, sounding out like Velcro. The theater is mostly empty. We picked out a row close to the screen, toward the middle. As the film went on, your fingers reached between the seats to find mine. We held hands until I got too nervous. My thoughts wandered, like clumsy bright green elephants through the theater. Your fingers slipped away from mine. We left and never talked about it again.
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Summertime, Sometime Ago It’s summertime and the lightly plucked buzzing ukulele chords ring out through the backyard. There’s a weird sort of dreamlike quality to it that’s hard to shake. We sit on the squeaking bench swing, chirping birds providing off-key choruses. It’s summertime and we’re much younger.
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Charming/Lame You told me once that I wasn’t as cool as I thought I was. That my romantic gestures were transparent, flowers for fucking up, hollow. You were probably more right than you thought, gimmicky romantic gestures shook loose of dust. Gaudy vessels to hide how terrible I am at telling you exactly how I feel. I’m 18 and still figuring out how this complicated thing works. Love complicates things. Its tangles of wires, its springs and gears, sprawled out with no instruction book to lean on.
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See You Around You can take it all out on me if that helps the tears stop, if you still decide to still spend the night. We can go back to the way we were, dysfunctional and scattered, complete as we’re getting. I can make something else instead of mac and cheese, I can never talk to her again. New problems would probably crop up, but we would still fall back in stoned-out laughter. Fast asleep as the TV flickers infomercials about exercise machines into the early morning. Same 20 year old indecisive idiocy, that I probably won’t get past. You’re probably right, see you around.
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Making It Worse If my knuckles get bloody against the steering wheel, if enough tears flow if enough complaints and excuses fall out will you leave him? No, but that’s all right. Love complicates things and those blissed-out summer days after class had to end at some point. Curtains drawn, withdrawn months later eyes redder than a clown nose, alone. I start thinking about laying on your couch. Naked pale limbs tangled up trying to act cool, not to be too self-conscious. I realized those moments where the expanse of everything stretched across my eyes weren’t going anywhere. I realized that things were going to be just fine again without you.
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Date #4 I plucked a few flowers from the side of main road, joy and nervous energy overtaking every movement. I couldn’t wait to see you again after last night. Stopping buses hiss, car frames shake as they go over the same pot holes. I think back and try to take the night apart. Searching for a catch, a missed signal. Something, anything that might keep me from falling too hard. I can’t think of a thing. I continue picking flowers as the cars race by, hoping the night will come a bit sooner.
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Are You Doing Anything Later? We can meet up for a bit, getting a few drinks and falling all over each other. Sloppy drunk and warm feelings, like the years haven’t slipped by. In the morning it’ll all recede, but we don’t need to talk about it now. Let’s get lost again like we used to. We can wander wasted through the old neighborhood. Where houses once so lived in and familiar now have fresh coats of paint and friendly enough looking owners. Street lights shine a bit brighter than they used to, illuminating the way back to your house.
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First Date Jitters Ghosts of distant suns whisper out romantic nothings through the haunted fall sky. I lay next to you on the cool lawn in the park by my house. I try to think of the right time to kiss you, but push it aside. Instead I hold onto this moment as long as I can. I can ruin things later, for now I just want to lay here for a bit.
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Autobiography of a Love-Sick Third Grader I’ve got a construction paper heart. One that gets all heavy and mushy when it gets glued to anything. Useless, awkward crayon wax covered, frayed pulp mess. Sappy valentine that isn’t nearly as cool as the Pokémon ones from the box. I want to be cool and removed, but I could never pull it off. At least not naturally. I’ve got a construction paper heart, for better or worse.
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Yes/No Coffee I passed you a note with my number on it. I could only stammer out that age old adage: “Would you like to get some coffee sometime?� I had been waiting months for this. In my thoughts I had been calm and collected, strutting sex symbol. In reality, I was the hunched over sunken-eyed weirdo you made polite conversation with at work. I never heard from or saw you again, confidence deflating like a beach ball in January. Lonely Friday night, phone within earshot at all times.
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Happy/Sad Poetry One-sided lovers get thrown into tidy narratives. A falling apart or coming together, finality in a world that doesn’t allow for it. Repetitive complaining, repetitive gloating. Idealism shifts to despair as the years fall through wrinkled fingers. I wasted all my time on love-sick poems instead of making things right.
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Revisions Life alone isn’t so bad. Sure the nights are colder and a bit quieter, but you can grow on your own. You can make it without constantly leaning on someone else. So give it some time. Let it all set in, let this awkward form shake it out alone on the dance floor. Free of self-conscious bullshit, not having to move with someone else’s rhythm.
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The Living Daylights I was kind of lost today, thoughts drifting off in all directions. Today moved on un-deterred. It shone bright for kissing sweethearts and low-life losers. It sang out bright at my distracted senses. Tried it’s best to move the corners of my mouth upwards as I dragged my feet through the motions. My selfish idiocy passes on regardless and I know it, even if I can’t change it. You called me later that day, just to talk and I found myself laughing creaky unhinged awkward like my old self. Like nothing ever happened. Thank you.
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The Neighbor a Few Houses Over I watch an older neighbor plant flowers. Fresh top soil in his fingernails, sweat across his wrinkled brow. I heard his wife died years ago, but I’ve never talked to him. I just watch as he tries to put his already immaculate yard in order. This yard will one day be someone else’s, even if it’s hard to imagine. My thoughts want my lonely neighbor to keep planting new flowers every spring. To keep living while the rest of us go off and destroy the world. But he won’t. He will eventually meet the same fate as these doomed inpatients. The world will become a sadder place on that day.
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Please, Stay for a Bit Linger a bit longer with me light as can be, cheap beer and bad movies. We can watch the sun reach across the sleepy metropolis. Listen to the garbage truck screech, echoing through the tall cement and plastic brick and steel. We can forget about our day jobs and our responsibilities for just this once, as the snow slowly collects gentle on empty city streets.
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Thank You
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Nicholas Arthur is 25 years old and currently lives in one of the many lake towns in Michigan. He is a Wayne State University graduate. Along with poetry he dabbles in music, writing and art. When he is not writing he can be found looking in the bargain bin at the record store, drinking coffee far too late at night, and eating breakfast any time he pleases. He has a cat named Simba. 29