marknathan
when we were just kids, traveler's then, and everything was open to so many things new. even now, still i feel foreign. his touch. that look. the soft hot tip of the index finger tracing my jawline like i were something real. it still feels so foreign to know that all along this has been about someone else.
like when you say dont think just write and the mechanics of your brain reach down to the mechanical spines of your fingers and what you write is that you're still in love with the same damn person. like you are programmed that way and no matter how much rebooting and restarting and systems restore alls you hit, you are never gonna give them up.
as in literal. we have a whole tank full. we could go anywhere today. i would go anywhere today. with you next sit over. we could put the playlist to random and i would go anywhere with you.
is what we were then. well not self aware hysterical but looking back now in that time glass, we were so young and so loved and so green. who would have thought this would be us years later. ghosts of those hysterical former optimistic selves. now what? hysterical still. bitter grey and ancient as a blackened rose.
like the word sounds. harsh and sharp as the cold blade you use. like a bathtub of ice and you are the fever plunging in. he was severe that day when he pushed the table from him like it were a careless coat. pushed her away and said goodbye. the words can cut worse than the knife.
a large word with a quiet sound. like the space between you and i. dust could settle there. my breath falls and you step away. push the kitchen chair back and pull up the blinds. you let the light in but this is so obsolete.
still bookshelf? a great house. large. with streets of punctuation and a family of loss and you dream here. all the time.
three. wood and metal. 18. dust. torn. unread you are. inside i once knew the thing you were trying to tell me.sentence not finished. you are the chapter after the last chapter. the end of the book.