Sheets, a disarray of white paper; smudged acrylic; the sun pours down from the boxy window in my ceiling, and I think of Dakota who comes in late on Sunday evenings. Her laugh came easy. Her hair were waves of somewhere between red and brunette, a little more than shoulder length; her curves were amazing, neither too extreme in a porn way, or too small and lean against her bones, and her tits were perfect. Her laughter was easy as the way she missed an old friend. She was always last to leave because she liked to say warm goodbyes, and then she would say goodbye to the space herself, like a slow regathering of her bits of soul left in a booth, or by her early-on abandoned seat, or in the lights on the bar counter. She'd enjoy her last smile in the afterglow, and in the cooling of the night. And then she would take herself home.

-

A moth kissed my arm; I was startled.

On Fridays, I used to dance all night. Crowds of skinny bodies and fog machines, and caffeine and shots of hard, showy liquor in my blood. The strobe lights flickering and fading in the hands of some automated algorithm or technician. Stranger after stranger, these bodies. Substances in almost everyone, some to dull, and some to heighten. How do you even remember the people you touch lips with, when nobody intends to go home? Did you even kiss, when there was no intimacy or connection, or even memory?

A boy I met around this time, told me that he slept with 55 people, and now I am his age.
I have not done this, but I don't think it matters. I don't think it is as hard to touch bodies with a stranger. Sex is easy; we have drives. Intimacy is the elusive pursuit.

There was another boy who went sometimes with me when we chased strangers and bodies and maybe something new to pass the time. Sometimes something promising would happen, like the passing interest of an attractive stranger. Most nights, there was nobody quite right. There was never enough drink to quite balance out that thing that weighed a person down, and then there was all at once too much, so he'd get us home, and let me sleep on his shoulder during the long rides.

i want to kiss the way the sun is always kissing the moon in its slow gravitational dance, but if i am the sun, you are the fusion in the core.

bits of charged stardust; regenerating and dying cells. 
signals, electrical, all in the mind.

the speed of thought in a singular space,
but if i touch you

i think we are less machinaries, and more breath,
and the wetness of rain on tree leaves pressed against each other,
damp bark & branches, sturdy & steady

-

Something old, something new. Something blue. Blue eyes; green; hazel; brown.

I started writing a love letter, and I grew bored writing midway. Anxiety is a pool in the pit of the stomach. Feelings come and go. Sometimes you put the color in the world, and sometimes I'm wearing soft greys and florals.

yes:
tea: earl grey, matcha, oolong, starcraft, guitars, wine, scotch, e-mails, letters, music, writing, afternoons, the rain, karaoke, love


some days, i live with a mist, and i don't want to shake it, this dream-haze. it's this border between wakefulness and death, and i exist in all worlds, physically here, and emotionally, there, in the space of magic and the subconscious. when i was young, i thought i had to choose.

there was a doorframe, where i lingered. some people walk past doors, and they live in the world. there is only one. but i didn't. i wandered. sometimes i got lost. to some people, there is only one space, and it is their own. one universe of existing.

to me, there were many. i always picked when i was young. i would pick one, be happy and then slowly grow dissatisfied, pick another, and then slowly grow dissatisfied. i liked my spaces, belonged in none. the only place of comfort, was the uncomfortable frame, the gateway, the fences. the space that was both entrance and exit.

birthdays & age.

grey mornings and my hair is wet. i'm over my ex. i've discovered this, by the sinking feeling & knowledge that i've spent a good part of my celebratory night, sitting in a black dress, and six inch stilettos, and my feelings, under city lights, in the bad magic of drunk calls. someone else. 

i don't remember. not much anyway. i've gotten rid of the evidence, but it happened.
maybe i don't know how to be happy about things, but i think i'd know to be happy when i have things to be happy about.

i don't know how this happened, besides weakness.
i wish i wasn't so imperfect. i don't like pedestals, or the illumination of good feelings because i spend so much time finding solace on concrete sidewalks. especially lately.
i think i need to wean myself off whatever i'm letting myself do to me. i'm not old, but i'm tired of the things that've always made me tired.

about seven months ago, someone said, "i'm not going to abandon you." and i laughed, "i don't have abandonment issues."

it's one slow conversation. all the silence fills the gaps where the beat is supposed to go.
if this was a heart, it's pretty much dead.