Somehow I find myself wishing, not as playfully as an afternoon by a fountain with a coin in hand. But truly wishing, while holding my breathe and submerging myself into a pool of regret... wishing I hadn't noticed the difference between the steady, solid ground I'm walking on.. and the way it was made to shake. Like a volcano silently building up, I've erupted with curiosity. What happens now? That's far beyond me... There are so many things I don't know.
And, there are so many things I've learned while gone. On vacation, my time permanently on hold - it's only a matter of creeping time until my excuses are old. And it's all a matter of longing.
Isn't it always a matter of longing?

If pandora's box is opened, and the lid is set aside, then how does a person go about inching the materials back into place with such curiosity? Drunk, sick, and burning hot from the hairline on my forehead to the tips of my toes - I find myself laying in the bathroom floor again. Shirt off, clammy skin pressing hard against the linoleum floor, leaving a small outline in condensation from my body heat. It's similar to the outline left from a finger, writing words in cursive on a bathroom mirror... in the condensation left over from a shower, left over from washing off the shame of sleeping all day. Such curiosity, and I wonder what it's like to break the cycle of fever dreams, shut the books traditionally laid out and stutter when asked why I'm on such a high horse with nowhere to go.
     I stutter when I have nothing to say, and when I'm reading out loud.. from nervousness. And it takes no aggression to make a girl like me nervous. So I write my messages in cursive on mirrors, and when you wake up... Hopefully you'll notice the impressions left from my skin with an honest message. After the heat of a shower, or the heat of a drunken sickness... Both having made me dream pretty wildly.

I hate it when my dog eats the leftovers of my previously canned soup, and I have to stoop to cereal in case I get hungry again. Some people say you should only eat at specific times of day, but I can only chew food to process when the anxiety of my body wasting away under my stretched-flesh overcomes me, and I shovel something into my mouth.
      When I forgot something on my desk while leaving, I turned around in the snow outside to go back inside at get it. I grabbed a thing, and realized that my boot and left a chunk of snow on the carpet where the only free floorspace in my room leaks through. Later, without wearing socks, I stepped in the puddle I'd accidentally created in the midst of a racing mind, and reminded myself not to stoop so low as to blame myself for what my hands had nothing to do with creating.

We're in the letter business, we're in business for words. The language barrier is so steep from here, and all I wanna know is how you think of me in snow. If you know my heart is cold. If you know I'm far from old, but settled with less... Avoiding stress, being nice never proved to be best. Honesty, my only policy, is failing me.

the complexities of the human condition never fail to overwhelm me in the newest ways. Facing the world, barely alive, barely aged with the oldest soul... And I feel the moment soaring by like the hurricane winds I've missed by ignoring the weather channel. Which I used to watch to fall asleep...
As it reminds me of such simple things, such as the weather is never quite predictable. And I'm not fucked, not quite. But barely.

Some things, like tiny liquid molecules of glass will fit together in infinity, until the light reflects the rays correctly. Then all I can see, staring out a window, moving in slow-motion down a one-way street. It's the dead of winter, and I can't hear you. From where I've been sitting, there's nothing to see.
     These eyes fixate on me in a mirror-reflection in a dirty hotel room mirror. I hadn't thought of losing you, not until long after I'd finally lost myself. I never dreamt of such goodbyes, that I had this night I heard you might have lost yourself, and not in any eyes of any strangers as you often drifted into before. It gets later and colder, but your jokes ringing through my head keep my warm, or warmly pondering past existences... all of which seemed could be no more perfect than this. Then a conversation strays into an array of abrupt laughter, and so the winner sings again. At warming my heart, you're the champion.
      I wanna be staring through those slow-drifting molecules just to see your face, or hear your heart monitors beeping to a rhythm of further-knowing that you're eyes will soon open and you can hear my voice, tired from crying, saying that I love you. I love you.

It's safe to say that I'm ashamed of myself, in the most delightful ways possible.

     I'm never surprised, but I'll always lay in shock in the moments after an ending conversation and a carrying meaning suppressed behind something softly said to cover up the fact that my face is screaming, twisted up and mutilated in the lack of gentle lamplight... like a painted figure seeming uncomfortably shifted. If so many things fail to take me off guard, then what the hell was I guarding in the first place? I am five feet, six inches tall. Perhaps slightly more on a good day, but the definition for such simple meanings forever shifts in denial, and it's either certain or it isn't.
     So it seems it never is.


      Some days, I wake up forever-early in the morning after an entire evening of uncomfortably rolling around in a dreamless haze, and realize it's only a half-hour before I'm expected to be at a place. Without an alarm to wake me, I stare at my cell phone for chunks of thirty seconds at a time and contemplate how cold it's going to be when I throw the sweat-touched covers back away from me and work my life into the existing hollow of the real world. Unfortunately, though you sometimes wake up on-time, you don't always wake up in enough time.