I am sitting here trying to write something brilliant and hesitating with every word. I want to phrase this all perfectly. I want to say it just so, but all of the words have awkward edges and I just can’t get them to fit right.
The world is still and soft with snow and I hide indoors with him. Our edges are awkward, but still we fit.
It’s been a silent-under-covers-whisperings-secrets sort of week. It’s been a drunkenly-singing-90’s-pop-songs and a guitar-hero-burlesque-rehearsal-cheeseburger kind of week. Every moment a blur, but every memory in devastating detail. My mind like an absurd melting clock in one of the paintings on his wall.
The persistence of memory, indeed.
Regardless, my skin is alight and the sky is dark and I’m alone for a few moments but not really. Not like I was here. Not anymore.
Even in the absence of any permanence it is deeply gratifying to know I can meet another person who makes me feel this way. Still, I hope it sticks.
December 27th, 2009 at 5:52 pm
Why strive for perfection? Perfect is only what you haven’t seen yet. This is nice. I am glad you jotted this down.