let me be decidedly unclear about all this.

And sometimes I just wish I was

sitting shore-side,

a barely twenty something

bronzed surfer’s sweetest heart,

breeze bouncing salty sun-bleached locks,

bare legs balancing 

sandy moleskine pages,

as I compose my palm-tree poetry.

I’m so fucking sick of feeling like this.

Holy shit, I just realized the paperback copy of Written on the Body that I bought at a second hand book store last week is signed. YAY!

I realize instantly breaking into tears and sobbing “I’m sorry, I can’t” into the general direction of my laptop most likely doesn’t count as a proper reply to your email.

But what the fuck am I supposed to do. A year and counting and it has changed nothing. It still feels like my heart is punching holes into my rib cage whenever I’m forced to think about us.

So, I’m sorry. I can’t. Every time you write I miss you. All I can read is not enough. And how does one reply to that?

(…)

“It’s the thing she does with her neck. The fucking thing, you know? She does this…this neck tilt thing and she winks at me when she does it. Winks at me! Can you believe it? I mean, who winks anymore, right? Anyway, that’s why I can’t let her go. The whole thing with the neck and the fact that I’m crazy about her. That’s why. She’s a terrible person, really. Just awful. Just, just, just, soul crushing sometimes, the way she talks to me. I know that. And she makes me feel small and…I guess undignified would be the word, wouldn’t it? But I don’t care. I don’t care if she tells me how much of a failure I am every day of my life, if that means I get to spend it with her.”

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Reasons are as follows: Work trip without internet access, work, work, work, death in the family, more work instead of taking time to mourn, and then even more work. I’m probably gonna set up my queue, but I won’t be around for a couple more days. I don’t really want to have time to think about anything right now.