23 April 2016
preteen saturday nights, 1999 on little white casio boomboxes. cheerleading routines that begin with dearly beloved, nervously performed underneath fluorescent lights during junior high basketball games. small town saturday night junior high dances, lavender sweaters with puffy sleeves and faded guess jeans. I would die 4 U and 13 year-olds who feel like they could dance forever, live forever.
post-football game friday nights, beth's house. under the cherry moon on cassette tape, blackest eyeliner, frostiest lip gloss, phone calls from boys, multiple so many phone calls from boys. new position over and over, again and again and again. anotherloverholenyohead screamed out car windows, 15 year-old girls who feel like they could sing forever, live forever.
late monday night drives in old white datsuns through cincinnati streets with cute college boys. mix tapes with extended versions of prince songs, endless forever rarest of rare extended versions. college boys who play phantom keyboards on navy blue dashboards with one hand and drive with the other while you pretend to like clove cigarettes. cute college boys who turn into boyfriends who turn into husbands who end up as best friends. adore on repeat during early dating days, adore on repeat during newly wedded days, adore on repeat through all the in between days, adore on repeat for always. 19 year-olds, 21 year-olds who feel like they could love forever, totally, forever and ever.
sweaty tuesday nights at star bar, dj romeo cologne and the sounds of early prince, rushes of sweaty, happy people onto tiny dance floors, 27 year-olds who feel like they could probably dance forever, live forever. sweaty sunday afternoons at dancespace on sixth avenue, alexandra beller's class and the sounds of new-ish prince, rushes of sweaty, happy people across generous wooden floors, 33 year-olds who feel like they could probably dance forever, maybe live forever. or, at least until the end of the song.
rainy thursday night drives into the city with your best friend for purple rain tickets. when nothing else can be done. prince on the radio, the internet, in the newspapers, on your phone, in your texts, for all the wrong reasons. prince in the news when you wish he wasn't. starfish and coffee as loud as it will go, feet on the dash, fingers interlaced. 45 year-olds, 47 year-olds who wish prince could live forever, know that he can't. wish they could be young forever, know that they can't.
RIP sweet prince. singer of the soundtrack of my life. you will be so sorely, so terribly missed.