for awhile i bet you thought i fell off the planet
hi. this town sometimes looks like a strange dream, that, upon awakening, leaves you a little unsure of your real surroundings. posted neon and cardboard signs for yard sales tack telephone posts on streetcorners and longlegged rabbits stare sideways and effortlessly bound through quiet streets and lurk in grass of shadier lawns.
my right arm has this way of aching a bit after a day of scooping and carving out ice cream, and my body smells consistently of bleach of chocolate of sandwich mayonnaise and of old sugars and cleaning products.
i watch out the windows in a daze.
then, when home, up stairs of a front porch of scattered chairs and windchimes, couch and ashtray, into central air and out of humid july afternoons.
there are all these people miles and miles away that i have not talked to in years and years; or at least several lifetimes.
(hello, i am out here, somewhere. in the middle of all this. i hope you are well, too.)
and there they all are, out there, somewhere ;
the faces you meet, the ones you don't.
the boys who want extraordinary girls,
the girls who want to be extraordinary,
the faces who stare brighteyed in the darkness but can never quite bring themselves to a kiss in any sort of daylight, the people in their cars on busy rush hour streets who pass by in windows too tinted to give away their gorgeousness or emptiness, opened mouths singing along to used cds by way of adaptor into a tape deck.
afternoons with air too thick to breathe in the reality.
summer after summer, and it's hard for me to feel like writing in this thing very often, although there is more to be written about in daily observations and events than ever.
something about bare shoulders and legs and light and that certain color of blue all around how hearts turn over all sorts of ways, and heads echo 'sometimes my heart fills with so much longing i cannot even sleep'.
listen, i just don't have the right words.
my right arm has this way of aching a bit after a day of scooping and carving out ice cream, and my body smells consistently of bleach of chocolate of sandwich mayonnaise and of old sugars and cleaning products.
i watch out the windows in a daze.
then, when home, up stairs of a front porch of scattered chairs and windchimes, couch and ashtray, into central air and out of humid july afternoons.
there are all these people miles and miles away that i have not talked to in years and years; or at least several lifetimes.
(hello, i am out here, somewhere. in the middle of all this. i hope you are well, too.)
and there they all are, out there, somewhere ;
the faces you meet, the ones you don't.
the boys who want extraordinary girls,
the girls who want to be extraordinary,
the faces who stare brighteyed in the darkness but can never quite bring themselves to a kiss in any sort of daylight, the people in their cars on busy rush hour streets who pass by in windows too tinted to give away their gorgeousness or emptiness, opened mouths singing along to used cds by way of adaptor into a tape deck.
afternoons with air too thick to breathe in the reality.
summer after summer, and it's hard for me to feel like writing in this thing very often, although there is more to be written about in daily observations and events than ever.
something about bare shoulders and legs and light and that certain color of blue all around how hearts turn over all sorts of ways, and heads echo 'sometimes my heart fills with so much longing i cannot even sleep'.
listen, i just don't have the right words.