I made soup for you, you were out of town.
When, at the end of the week, I find there is more left to say, something pent inside that must be left in this week, and I realize there is no one to say it to who would not find it strange and awkward that I was talking to them, I guess I am supposed to say it to my journal, I guess I am supposed to sit down with it's black cover, lick it's white pages with incompleted sentences and be satisified. I guess I am supposed to be satisfied. There is no comfort in the supposed to.