i'm kind of done with this place now. i might post occasionally, but if you'd like to know where i'm being busy nowadays, you can t/email me. ( littleworries at gmail.com )
i'll scratch some wood and just for you i'll drop a consonant or two and hide a note beneath the leaves to fill your head with giggles and breeze a glance and then a nudge at the time your elbows touched the still wet wall and we forgot about them all.
I have been left some comments lately. Silence seems terribly arrogant, but when it coincides with the rather more crippling levels of social anxiety, and those tissue-skinned internal crises, to withdraw seems the decent thing to do.
t-shirts that say things
and drinking from rivers.
rubbing sore shins,
and watching you sleep
beneath these lights,
that fan,
the consequence of holding hands.
we'd run,
and run,
and I think we'd meet,
but for these bloody
concrete feet.
there are significant tales here, with fingers dipped in ink and a cause for you to think those things we lack, the time, the space, the reason not to sleep on through a third day straight. we'll hear it on the phone, we'll read it on a wall, and the music we would play (if only we could) would fix it all.
and now, darling, to all those left behind on a dirty night in january.. talking to the one who changed, and remembering the sounds they made, but the bits of us that were ok don't count anymore.
time will never be the problem now as leaves and hair and remembered things begin to curl, and your love - not as brave as it ought, nor as utter as you thought, long since seeped into the wax-stained walls.. and the carpet under carpet there for fear of giving those beneath something to talk about.
