never mind that the nanoseconds in between
are some of the darkest darkness that you've ever seen
i was emotionally healed, for a time. [thanks, ani.]
staying awake for forty hours straight has a tendency to give the world a surreal sort of glow. something about the day rising from the other side of midnight is essential to this surreality - i can't quite wrap my words around the sensation, but it's in between the oxygen and the carbon dioxide that keep out the reflections of the sun for long enough to send a warm buzz across the lake. and by warm, i mean in color, in emotion, in hope and happiness and anthropomorphic imagery, not temperature. it is cold in this city.
but oh, oh, oh what can I say. . . I adore you
i wish i was cold. but then you go and give me that look, the one with the tired eyes, the pirate smile, and somehow, i manage to find myself apologetic. how does that happen? i wish i was angry. it's exhausting, though. i think that's mostly why i give it up; i'm too sleep deprived to deal with anything more emotionally taxing than a rainy day.
but you can't fool the queen, baby
nancy died in september. the last time i saw her, i knew it was the last time. she knew it was the last time. we reached across the counter top and clung to each other. . . she was so frantically happy, it broke my heart. she kept saying,
"'it's so good to see you!
it's so good to see you!
look at you,
and all grown up."
neither of us said anything about it. but it was there, hovering. the reason we were both so terribly sad. how could i have known? do you get that feeling every time, when you have seen someone for the last time? because i've never felt that way before. does that mean i'll see everyone i've ever known again? somehow i don't think that is true. those five minutes, in the rushing chaos of a saturday at work, some clearance sale and a mass of people, and noise, and one giant fucking mess of a blurred time four years ago...those five minutes are stuck to the inside of my heart. and it hurts.
that is, according to light and gravity | and baby this is you, according to me
october is sinking into my bones. i used to love october. i have a jar of dried leaves from freshman year in high school, and they still smell like brittle yellow oak. they still smell that way, the way that fall smells. six years ago, i carried a handfull of leaves in my sweatshirt from the douglas trail. that scent swept into my nose and i had to get off of my bike, i had to stop right there in the middle of the trail, to keep it in, soak it into my skin. i picked them up, all crispy and fallen and fragile, and i pushed them into my pocket. carried them home. and they still smell that way. every time i come home from school, i smell the jar, just to find it again, that feeling. that sense of urgency, of terrible violent beauty. i used to love october.
i am holding my breath | i am feigning my death | when I'm looking in your direction
quiet heaving, gentle rocking.
the path of one leaf through the air, from the tree to the ground.
warm hands on soft stomache flesh.
falling in to sleep.
sonic resonance in a stairwell.
hot water early in the morning.
being bare, and watching trust seep.
making up songs and words and singin from the soul | he got up to his feet and he sang hallelujah