I swing in arcs wider and wider until circles don't exist and I fall in love with straight lines. There are always right angles between us, the time bent between the genesis and the exodus or the space between systole and diastole. Our corners aren't equal and we fail to be isosceles. This is scalene, always scalene. Our thoughts&limbs&tongues are ( Read more... )

Mostly I sigh all rusty and lacking. I breathe my drought all over the side of your neck where I feel safe and like home. I wish so hard to resurrect the lines your fingers would trace over my flesh and the shape and movement you kissed into my bones.

I'm willing and unable to give what you've given to this. I'd give it forever.

Mostly I feel like a hitherto well-trained dog who suddenly wonders why they're jumping through hoops anymore. You are well, I am well, what else can I say about first days and last days? I am reduced to non-descript diplomatic sentences, spending entire weeks in which I do not speak with a single soul, but travel to and fro reading Virginia Woolf ( Read more... )

She told me what had happened last time we’d seen each other, things I vaguely recalled in different arrangements, and parts my memory had discarded entirely. It has been three years of massive and systematic memory destruction. I had visited her last just a month after the most desolate and traumatic two months of my life.  I remember a fun time ( Read more... )

At about 8 o'clock this morning my phone was violently vibrating its way off of my nightstand.  I answered to find a tone I remember waking up to.  It was James, and although we are in different cities, in different states, we laid in bed just talking, relating.  I miss him.; I miss staying at his house, listening to music in candlelight while ( Read more... )

"The art of war," that’s what it would have been. And it could have been something, really something.  It just seems to be building up like this, like layers of silt, forming whole islands; the thoughts of what it might have been like if, if I’d looked with big eyes, the full spheres not just that tiny fraction of the surface that we expose, really ( Read more... )

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Stuck: like those days in bed when nothing moves, not even toes, not even heart valves, to try to become transitional. Your bones are calcifying and you're not even twentyfive; you stretch out and write blast-from-the-past text messages to people you don't even want to have contact with; you go to parties where you don't know anyone and feign being ( Read more... )

Stop talking behind my back, sluts.