Mind the gap.

I’ve been going off on tangents all day. 

I’m sitting at the Foundation. Waiting for phone calls: volunteers, people pushing their pos friends to take care of themselves, pos people who need help—when I never knew how to take care of the people close to me who needed it. There’s a latent unrest here.

Don’t wait for it. Go get it. Get silly. Be good. 

I don’t want to remember the last time I made something for someone. There is something sacred about that focused purposeful thought that goes into those things, old love letters and cards, scrapbooks and stitching. The minutest of actions, pushing the fabric to split upon the face of a needle, the soft trance in technique. I am thankful certain things like this exist. 

I miss that pool of freedom and unconditional love that creating propagates. 

Have I mentioned before I enjoyed your eyes? I was deconstructed, though not where it touched the right nerves. You cut so close. And believe this, when considering mass and density in the abstract, the waiting could be cruel and the idea could be much worse—but what could you tell someone who fantasizes about that almost imperceptible finite second of excitation in the eviscerating? 

I’ve forgotten the last time my blood ran hot. 

This is that waiting for something calming in the vulnerability of the quiet. I am constantly affronted with these stupid worries and a widening gulf between my wakefulness and determination with something untouched and won’t (for the love of fuck not yet) surface. I have these dreams where everything I touch needs to be sublime. And the great let down in the morning, when my hands are pushing harder on my eyelids, the weight draws far down into cement and nothing seems okay, not even the ritual acknowledgement recovers me. I am floundering. 

There is an insecurity. A latent fear that one day, I’ll be that schizophrenic and wasted talent—a euphemism for disintegrated potential. It does not help that my friends and idols sought rock bottom. I see why but there is too much riding on me. Before I attempt to off myself some day I wish I could remember beauty like Marpessa Dawn, what warriors did before me, and that I should not have let the fight take the best of me. I should have bested the fight. 

The scheming is fraught with anxiety. What remains unfamiliar and almost unattainable is an easy grasp on what I am. 

But it’s a pang of worry just watching two puppies licking each other’s faces, keeping each other in check. This is a necessary social dynamic. Sometimes it’s worth it to know someone who knows me well, who knows what comprises the simple mechanisms working under this skin. And to lick my ears to remind me to focus. 

But I think I’ve been pawing at the ground and wondering what to do. My directions are poorly addressed. I don’t know what the future feels like anymore. 

I wish I kept someone around who spoke my language. 

You’ve probably noticed the spool in my rib cage. It is less naught than knotted but spun tightly so the fibers fold gracefully in some direction over opposite, and may possibly fray when you stroke against. To be fair, I am careful—and at the slightest run I will return and nurse with slow fingertips. It is unwise to leave unwound. 

The thing about you is that you can always catch me. Advise, when caught I am no less slightly. When unwinding pull gently. 

In front of you, I’d come undone. 

i like to think it’s a cat and mouse thing and i like to think we play both parts equally. and i like to think the mutual attraction is absolutely there. and i like to think i can be better in the game, and so could he. and i like to think we both win in the end. and i like to think …

There exists a disease for those with a propensity for travel—in the knotted, romantic belly of the bright and open-eyed itchy-footed. I have backpacks, not overnight messenger bags; my coat is thick and frayed and—which carries in part jealousy for the girl with the well-off parents and the Volvo and the gps device and tight new boots—spent. 

The pangs are formidable. If I were in a better position, these angsts would probably not have their stead. 

But here someone is at the liberty of choosing her life’s direction and trying on for size cities and states.

“In the absence of things..” 

To hear you talk about things a certain way is becoming. The way your mind wraps around science is hollowed ground and, while sacred, I’m curious. You’re my irreverence and I can travel the world with you. This I know because we deliberate so well the same paths: the music and the words and the food and the jokes spring brightly and spontaneously and we say the same things at the same time. What made you into the one you are the way you care is right. I am constantly learning.

I have an appetite. 

When away from you I have this compulsion to relive the beautiful moments. I forget easily the painful parts and faithfully return, much like a puppy that must revisit her master’s pheromones. If left with your footwear you will be returned shreds.

But in honesty, I want to eat the same foods when you’re not here. I want to savour your sour candy addiction. I’ll crave your Lagunitas Lucky 13, your Coopers Tempranillo, chasing down a Laphroag with a draught Belhaven. 

I am alone tonight. Studying for a midterm. Bulleit Rye in my shotglass. I miss your tastes. 

I have dreams in Futura, Wes Andersen unrelated.