sunday morning.

These days come in waves...sometimes receding so much as to seem non-existent and others form a peak so tall there is no way to look beyond. An evaluation of what was lost over time, and now that things are capable of being ten or more years back in history, perhaps time to admit to what was gained instead. I wonder if adulthood lingers a bit in what could have been, what could be. All the seemingly inconsequential choices leading here to this point. At times, they required no thought. This is love. This is right. This is life.

In many ways, I think these realizations or reflections hinder my ability to be certain. A path to be forged, but at what cost? My own hesitance and apprehension getting in the way of viewing these choices as a positive move forward. Always dragging my own feet towards the future as it all moves so quickly. Perceiving myself as old and yet still young. I'm sure the whole process will smooth itself out over time as these things are wont to do. But, at this moment, I feel timid in finalizing.

Friday, after work, I walked three miles to clear my head. Times Square down 6th down Broadway to Canal to catch the J across the river. Headphones in, listening intently to a proposed playlist for you. I like songs that make you feel like a badass. Ha! When you own a car, listening to that kind of stuff lends itself to sing alongs and maybe a little shoulder action or thumbs tapping on the steering wheel. Yet as a pedestrian, you inadvertently switch to strut mode with a soundtrack to a city sidewalk runway. Which ultimately is all the more embarrassing, because it's inescapably more visible. Eyes locked, feet places in time, maybe a slight swish of the hips. I catch myself and smile in these moments. Running to badass tracks works, bc you're already moving. Essentially sashaying to badass tracks...spectacle.

Sundays mornings are for Bob Dylan and days when it should be snowing.

I miss the time when sex wasn't a discussion.

The quiet pierced by single notes and softly murmured truths to a loosely clung heartbeat. Wearing stretched out cotton and spending too much time in bed. I liked it better when Conor Oberst wrote sad songs. Sliding guitars reminiscent of nights in dimly lit bars, pitcher half drained and pint growing lukewarm, dancing down the space between tables. The days when we pushed the hair out of our faces to reveal eyes with mischief untainted. Voices crack when locking eyes says just as much (if not more.) Pearl buttons on your inherited brown plaid shirt snapped up. You were smaller then. And now we are so much bigger.