01.26.17

Today IĀ found something I scribbled in a notebook maybe a year ago. I’m not the biggest fan of the end, but thought I’d share:

because you linger in my mind like an autumn leaf clinging with childlike fingers to a tawny spine, or a memory, whose thought it so sublime and whips, that I’m afraid it will flutter passively away on the slightest of blustery fall afternoons // so if you would just let me rest in your shadow, in the cap of an acorn, blanketed in the morning fog and cobwebs, until the next breeze, take it all in, do as we please.

01.26.17

1.9.16

And he told me that seagulls thrive in the summer months but wither away in the winter ones — and that maybe that’s why I find myself over-analyzing and nit-picking on black nights with cracked-open windows letting cold breezes prickle my skin — because I am a babybird who usually ends up flying away from any type of cold weather (or conflict) I’m faced with.

I told him I didn’t think the seagulls are the only ones — but he was too busy soaking up my melodrama as sadness for the night to notice his own decay.

1.9.16