Rainy. Again.

My hair pinned back so only my untrimmed bangs obscure the view of my feet and the concrete. Rain splashes off the asphalt. And it's so cold with my headphones in. Songs played twice in a row. "Karen" and "Start A War". I can feel the cold wet on the back of my shoulder as drops merge, beginning to soak through.

I wonder sometimes if it's okay to be so self-aware and so curious. This constant examination led to the conclusion that, really, no one will know me or remember me forever. Maybe it's okay to be slightly narcissistic considering how few people will ever worship you fully, no? ha. How the face changes. How the music defines this very moment. How unique observations still somehow belong to the collective. It's an odd fascination with the evolution of self. You know me. But later, after I'm gone, only in words or in pictures. And then, when you're gone, who will care?

Please hold me closer.

Wet

It began to rain on my walk to the train station this afternoon. Gray shifting overhead as it opened up and came down. Splashing onto bare legs. Freckled shoulder exposed when the wind slips. Hair whipping onto cheeks in sharp angles. You can see it fall, streaking in front of tall buildings. Being surrounded by such height magnifies the perception of distance from the sky.

Practically Begging

Practically summer. Sprawled out in minimal attire with windows open in an attempt to reenergize the stagnant air. The day surprisingly silent aside from an opened fire hydrant dribbling onto the asphalt street, the occasional car swiftly traveling down Flushing, and the periodic disturbance of voices or horns. Remnants of intensity struggle to stay fresh, but are lulled between sleeping and waking.

I kind of enjoy using crass terms for boning. Namely boning. hahaha. "Let's bone." This is usually rejected though. Alas.

I want ice cubes to crunch. I debated making ice popsicles (icicles?), but decided against it. A little too dullsville. Koolaid popsicles though...there's an option.

the weight

Red orange draping softly onto skin with a song you sent in the background. Eyes subdued, the outdoors humming. We are in here. The music slows and I click again. So simple to climb inside and yet, so far apart it seems when returning. Each time this happens, I am different for days. How unsafe it seems. Holding the hands of your presence in the dark. Captured and turning around and around. We go. The light is different in every room and so close the shadows seem we run. Please please me. Bring me closer to your head.

Our voices on the telephone. Speaking volumes above the sound of why and what now. I cannot decipher it all on my own, but postponing allows it away. "Silently" over and over again. "Your heart is beating tum tum tum tum." The things I say split in half. Back and forth, but always forward. "Your clock is ticking tick tack tick tack." I want to be buried inside you. Face sticking delicately to your chest, dewy, soft and raising falling in rhythm. I imagine, with images from deep within, curled up in fetal position, tiny, resting inside your shoulder. The heartbeat thudding in time to something far away. A drum measuring out the feeling I nestled within, safely hidden from view, but as I live inside you, the feeling palpitates into the very ends of your fingers. You know. You must.