Little [Random] Things

On the train the worst and best place to sit is the back (or maybe the front, if you're one of those people who like to have their noses in every conversation). Lucille's exhaustion billows in violet clouds around her shoulders, turns out that coffee is less efficient than blood when it comes to the arteries. In front there are backs of heads bald ones, dark ones, pale ones, heads that bob, heads that slant to one side, heads pushed together as if they were holding hands. This is the life , they had all said, back in the days when blinking was for the eyes and not the head. She is the wielder of the Six Figure Salary, the sharpest sword of them all, yes? Somewhere in the fringe of her memories there exists the weighty flightiness of wishes half borne into dreams; No, Rob , she hisses, you cannot leave the kids at home to go to the pub. If Lucille squints the heads merge into one messy cloud--she rubs her eyes, lately it is becoming difficult to distin...

I am in Love with the way your words look on the page the neat way all the letters fit Together and the hefty weight of their Echoes on my tongue and I am so in Love that it doesn't even occur to me that I am Choking for is it not true that only You can see the hard outlines of undigested Alphabets lining the insides of my esophagus

Sometimes you are shell-shocked by the feel of a letter curved under the wrinkly skin where your fingers meet your palm. There is a tangy chew to the rounded edges of an O perfectly positioned three-sevenths of the way down a stack of letters, precariously close to the sharpened vertex of an S. At dark hours when there are only your thoughts and the weight of silence on your eyelids, you even think that you could die--right then and there--if you might only find a way to string together the perfect sentence with the exact proportion of words and letters clasped snugly around your throat.

this feeling of being full how water curls its sticky lip around the edges of your mug in the morning when there is no time for stillness, whatever it means to be still. I am moving because if I don't I might forget that this is what it is like to be alive and we are raw, blisters, festering under the Wednesday sun-- all at once learning the contours of pain, which is to say none at all because pain breathes flat and flighty, and the hot viscosity of something akin to happiness oozing at the tips of your fingers where air gives way to space or fullness

It is a twist of logic that there is no process of becoming lost. One morning I was looking out at blue oceans and green skies and the next I am stuck in the clammy grips of decisions closing in on all sides. How unfortunate that the flush of the sun sears bone; at midnight I flicker under the waxy cast of a lightly singed moon. There are too many syllables caught in the slide between tongue and teeth incomprehensible, the way 脆 means both fragile and crisp...If I could inhale my future I would swallow it in pieces, and maybe it would be the same as dying. But who knows how much my stomach can hold before the friction of mistakes will light something on fire and I will stumble across some fractional line: lost, found.

in the space that bloomed between upper and lower lashes they found static, like it was safer to remain half unconscious and half alert there were flowers on all sides of the road on their way home so sweet so sickly existent that it clogged the veins of here and there and everywhere since it was too much to keep holding hands in the descent upwards, as if home kept drifting around their ankles, they let go, one asleep, one awake just a footnote to the end of a story that always seemed to be beginning

i want to be an asterisk to the highlight of my life like i am waiting for something b i g to happen; and here i am in the light where it is too much to just close your eyes when you no longer know what it means to sleep as if we are nothing but empty silences the universe thought of in a dream forgetting who you were through measured breaths and the taste of tomorrow draped over your shut lips do you ever get this feeling like your insides have expanded so fast the edges are clinging to the periphery of nothingness let me know when it's safe to let my feet rest on the floor

if you could do it again, would it be different? would you still want me, even if it's like this?

[ ] write to you, as if it is too much to write to me the empty space tightly embroidered through a lone [ ] like [    ] trying to escape this cage two legs dangling awkwardly from between breaths, the weight of filling in the cracks reminiscent of gravity--- you, who are far away, indistinct, the lustre of glass--  [    ] too afraid to stand under the light where there are nothing but shadows in every direction, every face every eye bleeding through skin you are silent yOu ArE si---- you are silence and yet again [    ] reaching, blind and deaf, for the edges of our skin the hefty texture of empti?ness? bursting through our veins