laughing at the park,

the outline of you glowing dim —

I could barely see you in the dark —

but with little eyes,

and brows just right,

balled up on the upper half of your face —

we were laughing at the park.

hang onto  the bars she says,

the glow of her words drifting, in the air,  and stark.

with the tone just right, up in tiny waves —

and coming at me,

swinging at the park

I thought a lot about

other things too,

situations and people, and —

what they aren’t,

I can’t sleep ‘cause of all these wonderful things

when he visits me in the dark.

So I lay and think and my mind

it paces — just how people

can arrive so suddenly, and make their mark

all the ways they can come together, whether

in close parks, or across the dark.

It was one of those fading of the sun moments, right when she’s watching everyone to make sure they don’t follow — one eye over the horizon and blip, just gone, running backwards and closing the door behind her, onto the other side of the world. All that was left was a cinnamon cast of her shadow, reflecting off of the clouds in a near perfect way, all over and all around me.

And everything was different during those minutes, the ground looked different that night when I walked home, thoughts of everything were different, they were burnt orange and freshly peeled, I wanted to sprinkle them in a big mug and drink  them down, drink you down. It was hollow tones abound like that dream I had with the birds, they kept falling all around me in a panicked way, an accepting way. They were so eye catching and bright, I couldn’t ignore them and with their wings, the sound was deafening. Much like this morning waking up and looking into my blue ceiling, I count the textures, I burst and count them again, I mull over the day thinking off all the things I’d rather be doing and where I’d rather be. I want to live in that cinnamon dusk, I want to roll around and let it burn my tongue, I want to run after her after she closes the door and see her on the other side.

Some how I just end up sitting here even though I plan a lot for the day. The weather is a mood controller, at least it’s got me believing that. My type writer is lonely sitting by the window. The light isn’t going anywhere either, I’ve grown used to it. But I feel safe here, I’ve always seen my room as sort of a cocoon, it’s alive and I’m quite aware of where everything is and how it stares back. It is a place where I am never uneasy. These days I feel like being in it more and more. My mom asked me why I don’t get out more often and she looked concerned but I told her I like it this way. There is no need for concern. I just don’t like going out a lot, plain and simple.

In other frightful news, there were like two dozen cupcakes in two tupperwares on the kitchen counter that are slowly disappearing 2 by 3, due to my love of chocolate and vanilla icing. If I ever had a vice, sugar would be number one. I’ve been trying to eat healthier though just because I feel better when I do that, but lately I’ve kind of forgotten about it. I haven’t been running anymore either. I don’t know, my mind is elsewhere. I’d do it as sort of a meditation. I’d be running but I wouldn’t be. It’d just be something for my body to do and be occupied with while I slipped away into somewhere else, a time to gather thoughts, or not care about worries. One foot in front of the other, as simple as that. 

I was reading old posts from a long time ago and it seemed like my tumblr has turned into something else. I used to write a lot more. That person feels different now, kind of foreign. I miss Washington. I miss having my own place with my three plants on the windowsill. I’d water them every morning. I gave them names for fun. They were tranquil company. I gave them away to the only person we met there that felt like our cup of tea. He even asked me what their names were. And I never told him that I named them. He also got our John Coltrane Blue Train Poster and our electric organ we found at goodwill. He was so readily willing to talk to strangers, but always felt a little held back around people he frequently saw. We never locked our apartment, we’d find notes and photographs left by him. We never cared he was there without us. I felt he was difficult at times but curious enough to always want to see. I miss him. So does G. He is a great photographer, and the only person that has taken photos of me in such a sly way to where I didn’t notice. Real photographs. Sides of myself that were unknown to me because I wasn’t aware they were being taken. 

The light is still waving to me from outside. I have class tomorrow and that makes my stomach sink. Why am I still sitting here? I am not sure. G. hasn’t been around as much. He took all the music equipment back to the base of the mountain for crying out loud. I really like playing electric guitar more so than acoustic. Probably because electric isn’t as difficult. I don’t have to strain as much anyways it seems. I need to go over there and record this song I wrote before I get disenchanted. I actually wrote it on guitar rather than to my midi pad. I feel like I could write songs easier on guitar, but I lack the technical ability for it to go smoothly. 

There is a jar of homemade jam sitting on my nightstand from NC and I’ll never open it. I don’t know why. There are a lot of things I don’t know about, and I’ll leave them be. 

reaching
a pressing flower between two pages
of my thumbs, the shortest book you’ll find
an extended hand out the window
as the road walks itself at dusk
it’s palms taste of dandelions
like a golden glow left of the day
milky straws, the stems
with little milky tears left on that “M” shape, the one my mother says is too short, with worry on her face

I am really bad at taking compliments, I never know how to react usually I muster a “thank you,” and shy away hoping that the conversation will change. Sometimes I don’t say anything at all and I’m like “no no no bad decision, that could look mean or ungrateful,” and I just hope a smile transmits my gratitude

I can’t sleeeep. I feel like my head is full of metal odds and ends from a junk drawer, clanging around at the slightest movement.