its the taste, really. the awful softness of the sweetsound, as well. pass your hands over my face. let the shadow trace in places and fill in the others. we are alike, i suppose, but rather i'd not. i'd rather know no undertow saves the best and deepest for last and sheepish i lie and lay against the corners of the house id rather leave half built, than built in half. forget remembering, than remember forgetting.
"im over it, really. shut up. don't talk to me. stop saying things i already know. whatever, i don't care, really. just leave me alone. id rather not. "
positives: i have a cat now. his real name is jones, but brennan and i call hi jonsi. he doesnt seem to mind it. he says goodmorning and welcome back from work. i've always wanted a cat.
man, this is really boring.
negatives: i feel like im waiting for something to happen. maybe its next year. maybe next week. or maybe its just fall. fall is just the decaying space between summer and winter. the smell of rot is everywhere right now. i love it.
joel says it smells like feet. i think it smells like 12 years old walking through the woods with a rusted machete and a bbgun, slitted sunshine running like shooting stars across his face as he searches for the miniature movements of small rodents and listens to his pulse slowing to match that of the trees' stretching like tributary veins under his feet. chill reddening his cheeks to rosehip blush. the chill means you're alive. the cold in the lungs. the breaking of day and leaves. sight and sound and sensation. death decay and a displacement of rusted light by birch trunks.
the past is endlessly one thing and everything at once. 21 years is a single moment.
its not exactly true to scale, she said. nothing that can be said into solid. i mean. oh. well. i suppose that can be taken into consideration. all things considered. i don't know. it being one of those all considered things. obviously. he sets the mug down at an angle, causing a quick rapping against the table. one side of the circle rolling to the other. then still. imagines a mug rolling on the edge of an infinite circle. never resting itself flat to wood. are there, i don't know, movements against these things? no. i mean. yes. a happiness. of sorts. a maybe happiness. a small current. but, i mean. so it has little do with it. i mean. im not sure how to make it clearer than that, really. i mean. yeah. hm. let's say. us, together, that. i don't know. we've become clear.
i mean. its not how i think. its in movements. tastes. really cliche neo-nuclear stories with sexing and gays and a protagonist with mysteriously infinite assets and perfect skin; i mean, these are the meanings behind desire and fear. a dead run, i mean. the imagination. i don't remember myself young. i mean. i don't image the softness. the round plumpness of youth. the stumpy curves of new organs and unfamiliar bones. unfamiliar to dying. how far can this go until it doesn't? i mean, until it doesn't? forget the wind. the weight of a hand on your stomach. that goes away, mean. when it happens. when it happens? how it happens, i don't know, is not really in the question. oldness? the sticking sound of barefeet on hardwoodfloor. across to the counter, then back again. leaves hit the windows, shattering it. spinning around the room, the leaves push against the cabinets. pressing their veins into the ceiling. the roof grows. then time slows. and however far we had come, moved itself into the corner of a locked room that caved and lost its corners. touch me and i'll explode. saying things i already know.
we've got our faces made for smiling, but we are weeping.
