You are blissed out and cynical all at once You are decrepit around people but with me youíre young And youíre stuffed up so you canít smell the scent of your new car But we drive around for hours though we donít go very far
We get to your house, get into your bed. Maybe you want me or itís all in my head. Maybe you love me, maybe Iím a fool Either wayís fine because I think youíre pretty cool
Today on our flight, about 4 hours in I decided to put in my earbuds and read. I held The Belljar in my hand like a butterfly that got its wings wet; its old spine and binding fragile. Layers, peeling like a sunburn you werenít supposed to peel. The words grew dimmer and smaller as people shut off their overhead lights. Iím not much of a reader, itís something Iím working on. I wish I was the kind of girl to get excited over a book. I was so absorbed in the world unfolding before my eyes, I had forgot of the music that was fully bleeding into my ears. At a moment I did...
You were the first piece of furniture we bought for our own. You are stuffed with dreams and hypotheticals; what-ifs and potentials. You were for my reception. You were for writing songs & playing Minecraft. You were for my Taki-dusted hands and my fast-growing cat.
You were for crying & sleeping on when the bed was too big and too cold. I pictured you in McMinnville; I bought you for my first home. For a room of guitars and ash trays and lava lamps and open chip-bags. For candid conversations and hugs and drunken...
Iím dragging my feet in the mud Around the town I grew up from Didnít think Iíd be here 20 years later When just about everything has changed
And seasons come and go But in this time things are meant to grow My car broke down and nobody stopped This isnít what I pictured calling home
My favorite bodega changed its name And the people here are friendly but their faces ainít the same And Iím still pining after boys who are cast aways And Iím crying at the familiar chug of the midnight train
Your hands are so beautiful. Theyíre refined, and shapely, and secure, and tender. Your fingers are long. Thin. And the way they touch me. The way they absentmindedly wave around as you talk. The way they wipe your tired eyes, and strum your old guitar, and pull your loose hair away from your face. The way they hold onto things tightly. The way they let things go.
Iím so tired. My eyes expel water, as if begging for sleep. Iíve had 11 hours of sleep. I ask my eyes why they are tired, why we are so tired. They shrug.
Iím not pregnant, morning sickness, canít bend over tired. Iím not parent chasing kids around the house to get their shoes on tired. Iím not manual labor in the sun tired. Iím not mourning the loss of a parent or best friend tired. Iím not surviving an unstable relationship tired. Iím not a teenager in high school, staying up late and waking up early tired Iím not high tired, or drunk tired, or...