dang.

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.

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 could...to 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.

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.

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.