We’re thanklessly wasting the time of our lives. I’m a mess of a person contemplating what I’ve been noiselessly lacking, being rightfully indifferent, trying to silence the penniless thoughts. You flatly tell me I’ll be fine, it’s your faultless way to be stoic. I feel moody and poetic. I like your being by me because lately that’s been feeling alright and I find that I am moved by your fragrance. I love you strongly enough to say as it’s true enough to feel but equally as heavily I’ve taken to thinking a livelier me must have some how died a while ago or was never even real to begin with.
Not just in stories, but the letters in between.
And I guess that’s why it haunts the pages of everything-
to self-examine. La Dispute - ” A Letter”
In the city that never slept, tonight she’ll be crushed to bed. Infinitely fucked up, all of her existence spent tethering on a ledge. Aside from this raised, tender sack of bones that she is, floating is the question of whether or not she’s ready. Behind her is a babbling macho man who’d much rather step into her skirt than how she’s feeling, attempting to dissuade an obvious decision and keep her from the state of her mentalities. In this second, wearing down, she wills herself to make her personal suffering obsolete. Too much self-hatred, too little self-worth. She’s so tired in a sense she would never be able to explain. What is the space beneath the soles of her feet besides time? She won’t save herself in this final situation of flesh that she’s in but she will do anything to be set free. To destroy her head but not the life she’s led.
I’m in this finality where my body’s awake and my being is tired. Just as sentimental as bodies thrashing to each other in embrace like big brass cymbals crashing, in a chalky navy sky, high the crescent moon looked like a fetus of light in a flimsy cloud blanket. I’m alone when the rain is a roaring crowd. The quiet, low purpled static, brightens the night.
Absorbed someone else’s visit.
A lightly painted view.
Of pastel pink and icy, faded, hues of blue.
Perchance bought by a body, only to belong to another body, to hold on to.
A sherbet mountain, a placid puddle of cool.
Cornered, coy pine trees shaded deep green.
A photo marked “Lake Tahoe”. I think touched by time, not too new.
Perhaps from the "are you missing me?" to the "of course I’m missing you."