medusaq

i'm sure we can come up with some way to torture you again. i scrunch them up because... the moments have been moving too fast and i haven't given enough time to one moment to complete one. i wrote this online journal entry in the beginning of all this:

it's as if i'm collecting, spooning together, the remaining sunlight of the afternoon. ushering globdules together so that my sitting in the plaza may be in a yellow puddle. i know that taking levi strauss & durkheim out of my bag is optimistic (they're quite old after all), but i could not have predicted that i should write. inspired by a girl i don't really know (i wish your words had come from me, because it's almost as if they have. publish. run away. i love you. as much as i can say that truthfully without having met you or ever talked to you. we are great friends who have yet to meet), i address her in one of those countless letters that were never intended to be sent. truth, youth, beauty - it's all there. for forty minutes i sit on the asphalt scribbling, and every person's shadow passing looks like its coming towards me. every shadow passing looks like tim, but tim isn't coming towards me. the puddle dries up just before five, or more accurately, the spotlight that took me away from this world, the considerate quarantine, is suddenly switched off.

then tim is there, in the cold scarfed grey. as DEATH is clad appropriately, so is ROMANTIC OF WINTER. holding hands, breathing out in white, mittens & hot mead are merely the free trials - you should see me in sumptious hours.

lovely lady, we will have to spend some time catching up on missed hugs one of these days. i sometimes forget that i wont live forever. i miss you more than i need air.