Today I feel like writing poetry. Sun casts warm beams on the synthetic hardwood floors of this apartment; he grinds up the eighth we bought (this is the third in three days) while I control the music. My index finger aches and pulses from where I pulled a hangnail earlier. I take it slow, press into my bones, crawl into his eyes.
Later that night I will fall asleep and he will let me sleep. And it will be generous. And I will wake up and he will be glad that I am back again.
When I get up the next morning, there’s a cigarette chopped up on the rolling tray.
He and I communicate in a way that feels designed and articulated; esoterically weaving our ways around each other. Silence doesn’t exist whenever we’re within range of each other; a constant line of noise between us. Our minds share the same terrain.
I am perpetually hunched over a notebook, looking for something that feels fresh. My hair is perpetually tied half-up, I feel feminine and perpetually purple.
I keep writing about how it feels like I’ve just completed life’s tutorial. I’m finally off easy mode. In writing it is bad practice to be too specific, it takes away from others’ ability to relate. I tire of being so vague; I want to write about what we were watching, and where we were watching it, when and how (Genesis 8 top 64, in his apartment living room, at night and during the day and all the time, on stream).
When I look in the mirror, I am often surprised about my reflection; sometimes it’s someone or something I don’t recognize. Lately I’ve been looking in the mirror and feeling pleased to see a friend looking back at me.
Black, soft, silky panties across my war-torn skin, a girl is nothing without her father is something I read on a poster hanging on the door of a bathroom stall I was in the other day. I feel delicate lately, I didn’t know there was such joy in womanhood. My dad texts me happy easter and I wonder about how many times I’ll let him do this.
Something old, something new, something sunny, something true. Back in the land I first loved on, I find myself growing up. I find myself aging, life getting deeper, and pulsating with chances. Things are getting more serious now. This is starting to matter more.
I am going to write about this.
I know.
is something I said to someone and someone said to me very long ago now. I keep wondering what could’ve been — not even that, just what once was. I wonder about the moments I missed when we were together; the moments I didn’t keep. Did you keep them instead?
There is so much to offer here. There are so many places I could be that aren’t here. There is more to this world than coffee-stained masks. There is more to this world than the inside of a car, the inside of an apartment. There is even more to this world than you or me.
I wonder if my mind has been permanently altered because everything just feels a little bit more beautiful now.
