Sunday, May 29, 2011


The smell of clove cigarettes and the sinking sun.

I am a mess for you. The time we spoke close and pretended. It feels unfamiliar like when you awake. And when I picture us now, I see a dark, grey lake, rippling under a curtain of mist.

Sunday, May 08, 2011

lukewarm coffee.

I read a 400 page book in a day. Today. I've been reading more lately. I don't know if it's for some silly notion of escaping harsh realities or if I've just happened to get lucky with the last few books I've picked up. I often feel I can never compose myself the way I wish I allow my internal discussions to become words instead of feelings. More so than before, I read a single line that clicks and manages to sum up what hours of unspoken contemplation cannot articulate. And, in its own way, these words allow me a solidarity with the other things that think and breathe and live. Never dogeared for quick reference, but a fleeting connection while pursuing something more tactile.

You could expect some sort of flustered attack with furrowed brow and resentful, childish punches (bc, well, I guess I'm mildly abusive in the corner.) I just. I just have so much to say and nothing to say at the same time.

Thursday, May 05, 2011

cinco cinco.

No one I want to talk to is online. These are old school kinds of wishes.

You were right, kid.

I remember Built to Spill and I am falling back into the summer I drove the van and met you. Fingers flipping through cds at the record store, lifting Keep It Like a Secret up bc you told me it was one of your favorites. A starter album.

I feel so fucking inarticulate.

(like, 20 minutes later...)

Maybe I'm not done rambling quite yet. If I can force myself to be really blunt and speak fuck-all, I can articulate, at least, openly. My very first boyfriend is apparently on tour and coming here, but he doesn't know I know bc I only just found out. And while I think this is funny, I find myself wondering how funny/not funny it would be to show up and be like, "OMG you're in this band, I never knew!" Except, I didn't really, until about 10 minutes ago after internet stalking failed to conjure up a different guy, the Built to Spill guy. Apartment living sucks bc at moments like this one, I can't scream loudly and without shame the way one can in a car driving darkly through the night or, you know, even in a fucking house with some space surrounding it. I hate feeling so alone sometimes. And when I said you were right, I meant you were right that I buck up and do something about it aka make a fucking effort to be in the lives of those I adore. Ain't no one pining for me in this fucking shithole. I want to drive out to the desert or the woods to trip balls on some spirit quest that will bring me closer to god or myself or something. I'll get my palm read, my fortune told, start hoarding crystals with magical auras to soothe my frazzled head and close my eyes and count backwards from 10 and when I wake up I'll stop worrying.

Why did you go away?

I have goosebumps and I'm sweating under blankets.

A white and breathing sky.

The shadow on the moon.

I realize you are the one I turn to when it is too quiet. I want to warm my hands with yours and it is so hard to stay quiet without you.

But, I said I would let you say when.

We played badminton in the park wearing expensive sunglasses until the evening blossomed over the horizon.

I hope I hope I hope you are okay.

My face is too big in the mirror.

Wednesday, May 04, 2011

it is raining & i have more to say.

The white spines of books glow in gray light and small drops of rain whir as they splatter onto spring leaves. Soft breath and city sounds.

Friday, April 29, 2011

habits and things.

I wash my face twice a day, and when I come up from the sink dripping wet, I think about how my hair is good/bad. I put vitamin E oil on my scars and take a handful of fat vitamin pills with water at night. I dislike brushing my teeth. When I am tired or drunk, I make excuses to avoid doing so.

I poured a mug of milk and took two cookies to bed to watch Rudy Huxtable.

the good kind.

The whirring hum of a plane overhead and muffled music through the wall. We've got the windows closed and golden light from small bulbs. I toe the thin line, skim the tip along the surface to ripple cold water outwards.

In that moment, I almost decided to let go. A cause to collapse into ruin. A song with an echo. A solitary woman with a hand too full.

I think you lie to me. And to yourself, perhaps.

Maybe I'm becoming the unknown. I close my eyes I dream of you I count the numbers on my fingers with furrowed brow. My muse, my awkwardness, my cut-off sleeves. Not everything is splendid. I twirl my hair and hours pass. Twisting the ring around my middle finger, then distracted to clean shit out from under my nails while the cat shakes his tail and rubs his face on the corner of the bookshelf.

I will not write anything about you. I will write the aforementioned statement ad infinitum to give you space to breathe. You can tell me when to stop.

I want your words upon me, please gently shield my frame. The cat jams his face into my leg. I loiter on the corner, pause to debate the cleanliness of the post I am about to lean into and shrug.

You were my age when you moved to the city. Your quiet corner crafted the web that catches us to hold our faces to the stars, the sun, the blinding light from which we cannot look away. You are a willow.

I am a bitch.

Monday, April 18, 2011

it is monday night.

Yesterday we sat in the park in the sun in the grass and watched Jake skate. It's still cold so I have a purple scarf draped around my neck. We rode bikes to the park and the wind created a cape of my jacket. Each time I took a curve I wanted to close my eyes and when I could feel myself going faster, I felt infinite.

Remember the time we were up in my room and you were on top? Your hand up my shirt and our eyes closed in the lamplight underneath a ceiling full of stars. And now it has been ten years and you have children and a scary wife and I haven't spoken to you since, well, you talked about having these dreams about where you would be. And it wasn't there.

We are all getting old, fat, and slow.

I remember the first time we had sex. The first time ever. In your bed with the record player going. The headlights of cars passing by and casting short-lived shadows over everything. I think I see your face sometimes. In that moment.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

it is sunday night.

I feel old and I miss my friends. I can remember the first time I liked a boy. And the first time I let one kiss me. On the bus with eyes closed until he pulled away and I saw his cheek. I remember the time in front of the library where we used to sit in front of the windows with our knees pulled up so that our bodies touched and I kissed you right before you left. One time in the dark we climbed up into someone's old fort and you put your tongue in my mouth and no one knew. I saw you a decade later and I didn't know what to say anymore.

Tonight I want to be beside you while you cook your dinner. I would lean upon the counter and watch you watch your pan of things that bubble and smell like nights I cannot forget. Or maybe lie upon your floor with eyes staring steadfast at the ceiling and tell you the stories I only tell myself when I am quiet and feel alone. Or maybe...

Remember when you pulled me in and all was new? Remember when we watched a movie and somehow ended up kissing until I cried?

Sometimes I want to scream at the sky. My feet will be planted on the pavement and the asphalt flickers under street lights or headlights or moon light and everyone will know. And I won't have to hide anymore. Just how sad I can be inside.