it's like rain in the middle of an ice storm, you can't explain it and you don't know why but that doesn't stop it from happening and freezing your porch- but you don't find out about that part until the next morning when you hurry out because you're already five minutes late and there's going to be traffic and you suddenly go from walking briskly to black to waking and wanting to claw for the covers that aren't there because it's too cold for comfort and you're already two hours late and fuck traffic, what you really need is a warm cup of tea with a splash of something stronger because if your head is going to pound like that, you might as well give it a good reason to do so.
give me a ticket to anywhere and i'll be more than happy to take it and put it in a box beneath my bed so i can dream and wonder of what-ifs and maybes that i let slip between my fingertips. i'll never remember about that box, i tell you, and you may not believe me but that's probably because i'll lie if i have to to get you to believe me on this.
(i suffer from chronic wanderlust, but only thirty-five percent of the time, the rest i'm too busy clinging to things and ideas and people that are too busy walking out on me and my thoughts to even drop a second glance my way, much less return my phone calls or do anything but delete my messages that aren't left on their voicemail for any reason other to just be, without even listening.)
sunday afternoons are for grilled cheese sandwiches and running over water running over our backs at different times, and you called me back but i was too busy hydroplaning in the middle of a monsoon no one should have been driving through to answer you. i'm sorry i was off the radar (your radar) for a couple hours (too long for comfort) but i was too busy shaking and remembering that trees weren't so bad when they stay where they belong and not embedded into the hood of this beat up toyota that has been through shittier weather than this before and only managed a scratch here and a dent there.
(and oh god, oh god, oh god, all i wanted to do was go home and curl up and sleep forever and never wake up because panic is suffocating and i like breathing, i like breathing, i like breathing a little too much for this. it takes me three tries and four misdials to calm my shaking enough to operate a touch screen well enough to call you back without dropping my phone back down on the floorboard.)
it's not a crime, to wish for someone to be beside you. at least, i really hope not, because felonies never really suited me and i don't know if orange is really my color. it's not breaking the law until you're caught, at least in this case, there's no witnesses to see me wishing for something that isn't going to happen. only strangers casting varied glances at the girl in the subway that refuses to look up and refuses to drive again yet and is obviously breaking into a million little pieces, and the worried words of friends lighting my room up like christmas when it's late and it's dark and i'm pretending to be asleep so i don't have to talk to anyone and no one is buying such a bullshit story from the girl who never really sleeps more than a few moments at a time.
("She's too scared to sleep, you know."
"Is it monsters?"
"Part memory, part subconscious wandering. Can you define the term 'monster' for me so that I can give you a definitive answer?" )
it's summers spent walking barefoot across the boardwalk and into rushing, bone crushing waves that sting with the kisses of salt water and harsher yet kisses of shells and sand that will somehow find ways into the sheets that end up crumpled and bunched up at the bottom of the bed in the morning because it's too warm and too cold at the same time.
(you're too cold, and i don't know this too well yet. maybe i'll learn it better than i know now, or maybe you'll just be that winter boy with brown brown brown eyes and a reluctant smile that gave me a chance i couldn't quite tell if i was imagining or not.)
taking books, one page at a time with a cup of tea curled up on the window seat half hidden in a library, somewhere far, far away with no hope of anyone i know coming across my little hiding place for hours, days, weeks. it's mornings spent out on a balcony with messages written on the foggy windows behind me and the dawn breaking through the clouds before me. it's christmas lights up all year around the room because artificial light is just too bright at night when i want to be able to see the stars outside my window and maybe crawl out onto the roof if the wind isn't to needy, too biting, too harsh to handle in tank tops and lace and knee high socks.
(it pays to live out in the middle of no where, and sometimes it's not only because i can see more stars than i can count and constellations that i can't find in cities with their constant clouds and constant noise that makes me want to do nothing but crawl under the covers and bury myself in pillows until i hear nothing, not even the buzz of electronics that's all too loud for my liking.)
it's ballet at four in the morning against hardwood floors in my socks and trying to remember just how i was able to do this when i was younger, smaller, starry-eyed and all elbows and knees without the grace i still don't have a handle on yet. growing up is something that makes you wiser, and i'm not, i'm not, i'm not but i'm working on it. i still whisper my secrets to fireflies that light up the bushes in the summer months before letting them go free because they deserve to be happy, they deserve to be happy, you deserve to be happy but i don't know if you can be with me.
(it's truth that's hard to admit, and lies that are easy to speak when they're not as coarse as the truths they're trying to hide, the truths i'm trying to hide and lies are just truths for someone else and there's more of someone else's life here than my own and i can't quite tell the difference between the two right now.)
old days, with long days and shorter nights that are slowly trying to even out. autumn kisses my eyelids whenever i close them but she's gone when i open them again and i'm thrust underwater with a current that's difficult to swim against and i don't fight, i don't fight, i don't fight and instead find a map of the world on each bubble that escapes my grasp, grasping onto words i have yet to speak but have thought again and again and again. it's nothing, nothing, nothing, just give me a moment to compose myself and i'll be okay, i'll break free, i'll breath again in just a moment.
(it's a moment that remains undefined.)