drifter.

Somehow, I am not anyone. Just a spindley song, carried over the wind on a reedy voice. The notes that wander and grace your ears, the edge of magic lines unfold.
You stop midstep, to listen.
"Where did you come from? What are you, little fairy..."
Surround. Ghost orbit, slow motion spin. You're looking for a source that isn't here. It's the breath of soft green moss on a river bank and the smell of earth after a rain. It rises like steam from the soul of this earth untold. A cold winter kiss.
It's never enough but it's all I can give from this place, so out of sync. This weathered dimension, my cage of ice. This is the part where we embrace. This is the part where the miles wither, time springs into step. This is the part where I say, I love you so. How many times, but I love you so. I've been listening to too many opinions, and too many sad stories, and too many tall tales.
Will it ever be enough to know
you are not alone?
 it's just a song
 it's just a song.

indirectly yours,

Here we are. Out of the dark and into the day. Ok, I'll start.
Well, it's relief I guess. You are so heavy. Heavy for me. You felt it too, and admitted as much, in the intolerable poetry that is your voice. Oxygen. The space to breathe, further and further away. Away, till your lungs fill with air and the thoughts are pushed from your head. Only then you realize you were drowning in them. There it is, a clean getaway. No ties, no calls, no checking in. There is nothing to say. No words to lift your pain. No words to tell you the answers to questions you already know the answer to. So let it be static. Let it be the white noise that fills your mind when you fall asleep. It's the wind, it's the butterflies. It's a wash.
The truth is, I'm not feeling very verbal today. Certainly not a day for writing precocious monolougues or narcisistic tangents. Mostly I just stay here in my circle, and that's fine. But sometimes I find myself humming the words to your songs; vowels and consanants that take shape within my subconsious. My litany of you.

good mourning.

You know why I stopped listening to music? I can't hear anything really good without conjuring ghosts. I am safe in the drivel they play over the radio. Total bullshit.

You me and a receiver. Trying to swallow me whole.

game on.

We're passing letters over time zones. Flicker, bend, screen vibrate. You and me, we're the lakehouse. Aligned in two completely different dimensions.
Here's the thing: you begot me. We're related. We're strings, and they can't be cut. Nothing so real can be severed. It's a wire. I still send to you like you send to me.
I read it and got butterflies. My heart stopped a little. Whatever it is, I've missed it. Can we keep this up forever? I got a glimpse inside, and laughed. You think you are the only lonely soul on the planet.

We are nothing without pretend. Child's play. And ready or not, here I come.

It's your world I live inside.

I think it dawned on me today that I'm never really going back. And if I push myself to let go...

You lay in my memory, pristine. I turn the pages back more times than you think, soldier boy. You're like paper left in the sun too long, bleached and warped. Tossed out, but the space you once were an echo to your existence. Oh, god. It terrifies me to think I may have to relive that pain. That anyone around me might fall down sick and leave only a trace; such a feeble testament to meaning. I am the keeper of your best years. Just when I think I'm close to forgiving, infinity...you are the space between 99 and 100.

Tick tock.

Again, to you.

Do you ever wish that
We'd met
In a field of flowering poppies?
Do you think that
maybe it make
things a whole lot different?
The truth is that
You were much lovelier
Than I've ever given you credit for.

This healing.

To be honest, I'm not terribly sure what kind of girl I am anymore. I'm not sure where my bigger purpose is. It is so easy to inspired when the possibilities play on your fingers and their tips touch fire. It's always an adjustment, getting back to the real world. There's very little instant gratification here. Time moves a lot slower but somehow we're all aging faster, and that's fine, facing your own mortality and stuff. But I want to be bigger. 

I can't help but think I was more peaceful by your side. More centered, more spiritual. But I was clinging to grudges then that I've let go of now. It's ok to be ok. I'm not defined by my struggles, and I don't need common ground to empathize. I can transcend my past. I am happier, and more in the moment. But somehow less in tune, less connected. I'd like to change that. Thanks for showing me that side of myself. 

Three years have passed since I lost you. I wonder where you are a lot. My imagination has a tendency to go too far, and I imagine you clinging to the telephone hundreds of miles away, in some dingy carpeted hallway, memorizing my number as they take you away. Do you ever think about me? Do you ever think about the summer we spent on your couch, watching that taxi cab game show and making quesadillas and going for runs in humid air that drenched us so our clothes stuck to our skin? Do you ever think about losing charlie, or watermelon on the back porch, or fireworks on fourth of July? Sometimes I think its better to get lost in those memories than imagine you now. Or our last conversations. We were so beautifully terrible, but I think I've stopped blaming you. I lay back, breaking up with a memory. I know you came back for me, that October after I moved. I know you wandered around the streets of Atlanta in the cold until I called your parents to come find you. He never asks about any of those memories. But I never, never talk about you. He probably doesn't even know. That's not his fault. Maybe its mine. Maybe he doesn't want to know. He has healed me in ways you never knew you broke me. I'm ok now.