[Girl] Meets [Girl]
So instead of hanging out with the numerous people who invited me out tonight, I'm pretending I'm already in albuquerque and I'm going throught the entire book Boy Meets Boy and writing down all the great lines before I have to give it back to Heather tomorrow :(
"What's wrong?"
"I can't say," he tells us, and we know what he means. That nameless empty.
I love this scene, this floating reality.
I am three notes in the middle of a song.
Sometimes you just have to dance like a madman in the Self-help section of your local bookstore.
All I can feel is this intensity. My mind beating in time with my heart. My steps keeping sway with my hopes.
I am a firm believer in serendipity: all the random pieces coming together in one wonderful moment, when suddenly you see what their purpose was all along.
[She] has become my until.
Sometimes I feel like fate is dictated by irony (or, at the very least, a rather dark sense of humor).
Riding the train is all about moving forward; our conversation moved like it was on tracks, with no worry of traffic or direction.
I think they have compatible silences.
The subject of "us" is dropped back into signals and longing.
They defy gravity, as good books should.
[Her] mood reflects indigo.
We stay this way until twilight colors the window
I can tell from [her] notes that we have a compatible randomness.
This is my life. I am an accumulation of objects.
Most of the time, I feel like a perpetual smudge. My lines all curve. I tend to connect the wrong dots.
At this moment, every conscious part of me is in the hand that [she] holds.
I want this all to be the truth.
We pencil-sketch our previous life so we can contrast it to the Technicolor of the moment.
Its moments like this that I feel like I live in the middle of somewhere. My somewhere.
"What's wrong?"
"I can't say," he tells us, and we know what he means. That nameless empty.
I love this scene, this floating reality.
I am three notes in the middle of a song.
Sometimes you just have to dance like a madman in the Self-help section of your local bookstore.
All I can feel is this intensity. My mind beating in time with my heart. My steps keeping sway with my hopes.
I am a firm believer in serendipity: all the random pieces coming together in one wonderful moment, when suddenly you see what their purpose was all along.
[She] has become my until.
Sometimes I feel like fate is dictated by irony (or, at the very least, a rather dark sense of humor).
Riding the train is all about moving forward; our conversation moved like it was on tracks, with no worry of traffic or direction.
I think they have compatible silences.
The subject of "us" is dropped back into signals and longing.
They defy gravity, as good books should.
[Her] mood reflects indigo.
We stay this way until twilight colors the window
I can tell from [her] notes that we have a compatible randomness.
This is my life. I am an accumulation of objects.
Most of the time, I feel like a perpetual smudge. My lines all curve. I tend to connect the wrong dots.
At this moment, every conscious part of me is in the hand that [she] holds.
I want this all to be the truth.
We pencil-sketch our previous life so we can contrast it to the Technicolor of the moment.
Its moments like this that I feel like I live in the middle of somewhere. My somewhere.