V. Quittance
She called me tonight. I was glad it was her. Shes the reason I plugged the phone back in.
So, anyway., she says immediately - as if she was continuing a conversation rather than initiating one, He is so confusing, Julie, I swear to fucking God.
She doesnt need to clarify her pronouns. I know without thinking and she says without speaking. Weve been having this conversation our entire lives.
I wonder if she knows that I cried when she didnt call for awhile. Hers was the only heart I was sure that I would never break. The saddest part of growing up and getting
(c)old is realizing that were all the same. We all get hurt by the ones we love the best. We all just want the pretty things.
My regrets are weaknesses like pretty Percocet and the sweetest mouth I never should have tasted. The pretty things were nice. Golden blankets of California sky in the late afternoon, his blue, blue eyes. I hope she knows how hard Ive wished (I couldnt take it back) that I would have kept staring into the sky.
(Shes the only one that can make me not alone.)
She never said goodbye but she was gone, and still right there. She has a haunting way about her, her pictures smell like chlorine summers and hot pavement on bare feet. The phone breathed the same whispered voice that was there in years like 2001 and 1991 and 1981 and also 1 week ago. Shes the sister conspirator and commisserator, the witness to all the times that I was most alive.
I sometimes feel like Im dead inside, but Ive never been alone.
She called me tonight. I was glad it was her. Shes the reason I plugged the phone back in.
So, anyway., she says immediately - as if she was continuing a conversation rather than initiating one, He is so confusing, Julie, I swear to fucking God.
She doesnt need to clarify her pronouns. I know without thinking and she says without speaking. Weve been having this conversation our entire lives.
I wonder if she knows that I cried when she didnt call for awhile. Hers was the only heart I was sure that I would never break. The saddest part of growing up and getting
(c)old is realizing that were all the same. We all get hurt by the ones we love the best. We all just want the pretty things.
My regrets are weaknesses like pretty Percocet and the sweetest mouth I never should have tasted. The pretty things were nice. Golden blankets of California sky in the late afternoon, his blue, blue eyes. I hope she knows how hard Ive wished (I couldnt take it back) that I would have kept staring into the sky.
(Shes the only one that can make me not alone.)
She never said goodbye but she was gone, and still right there. She has a haunting way about her, her pictures smell like chlorine summers and hot pavement on bare feet. The phone breathed the same whispered voice that was there in years like 2001 and 1991 and 1981 and also 1 week ago. Shes the sister conspirator and commisserator, the witness to all the times that I was most alive.
I sometimes feel like Im dead inside, but Ive never been alone.
you were going to send me some of that at one point.. i'd still like to read it all. if there is an all to read. maybe that world is just created by me. in my minds eye on the fly. fingerpainting your prose into my dreams...