I've written 65 songs this year, and they're all about Joe.
"You'll stop me, won't you, if you've heard this one before?"
The dry, yellow grass moves in the wind but when you pull on it, it breaks easily enough. It bends alright, folding again and again until it's tight like a spring. But if you pull on it, it breaks.
You fold your piece of grass into shapes and I break mine into smaller and smaller pieces.
The sun's at my back, and there are these moments interspersed that I feel a bone-deep sunshine: a pervasive contentment. I poke at the dirt with my piece of grass, watching it loosen and crumble. I am finding new stories to write, ones that are true. I am watching everything so closely; faces slip by me in seconds but stay in my mind for days.
I saw a girl this morning with her hair dyed brght red, riding in the passenger's seat of her mom's burgundy outback. They were pulling out of the Suburban Christian Church parking lot, and I am still wondering what that girl was doing there. Was she dragged?
There are burrs sticking to the black leggings I wore, embarrassed, to cover up the fact that I haven't shaved my legs in awhile. I am picking them off and listening to my loud thoughts echo back off the blue sky. I am thinking about love and sex and the intersections and the divergences and the red lights I've been running all weekend.
You told me once that I didn't know what love was, and that maybe I'd know someday. It does and does not feel like that day is today. Or yesterday, or last month.
I eat the zucchini bread with my fingers, sometimes picking out the raisins and sometimes eating them anyway. I'm wallowing in a thousand moments that aren't this one. Living in the moment is my struggle these days. The present is so clogged with the past and the future.
The stump digs into my leg in the same spot for an hour and I think about love and sex and what is falling and what is running; I think about the ways the world changes when you take off all your clothes with someone else in the room.
I can't figure out if the memories are coating me, like a second skin, or if they have built up on the inside.
Leaves rustle every couple of minutes and I keep looking over at the place where the trees turn into the field and wondering what's rustling those damn leaves. My legs are too itchy to be in love.
"Remember when...?"
The dry, yellow grass moves in the wind but when you pull on it, it breaks easily enough. It bends alright, folding again and again until it's tight like a spring. But if you pull on it, it breaks.
You fold your piece of grass into shapes and I break mine into smaller and smaller pieces.
The sun's at my back, and there are these moments interspersed that I feel a bone-deep sunshine: a pervasive contentment. I poke at the dirt with my piece of grass, watching it loosen and crumble. I am finding new stories to write, ones that are true. I am watching everything so closely; faces slip by me in seconds but stay in my mind for days.
I saw a girl this morning with her hair dyed brght red, riding in the passenger's seat of her mom's burgundy outback. They were pulling out of the Suburban Christian Church parking lot, and I am still wondering what that girl was doing there. Was she dragged?
There are burrs sticking to the black leggings I wore, embarrassed, to cover up the fact that I haven't shaved my legs in awhile. I am picking them off and listening to my loud thoughts echo back off the blue sky. I am thinking about love and sex and the intersections and the divergences and the red lights I've been running all weekend.
You told me once that I didn't know what love was, and that maybe I'd know someday. It does and does not feel like that day is today. Or yesterday, or last month.
I eat the zucchini bread with my fingers, sometimes picking out the raisins and sometimes eating them anyway. I'm wallowing in a thousand moments that aren't this one. Living in the moment is my struggle these days. The present is so clogged with the past and the future.
The stump digs into my leg in the same spot for an hour and I think about love and sex and what is falling and what is running; I think about the ways the world changes when you take off all your clothes with someone else in the room.
I can't figure out if the memories are coating me, like a second skin, or if they have built up on the inside.
Leaves rustle every couple of minutes and I keep looking over at the place where the trees turn into the field and wondering what's rustling those damn leaves. My legs are too itchy to be in love.
"Remember when...?"