sometimes i do the stupidest shit, like read through old conversations with shadows of the past and it’s like driving a piercingly sharp shard of glass through my spine and twisting it so that it reaches my heart.
only to rip the freshly sewn stitches open once again
In some of my darker moments, i do this.
in other news
i’m fucking excited, because this morning, my friend Dana and i bought our tickets to see Tori Amos at DAR Constitution Hall, in DC this summer. it’s hard to put into words just how crazy excited i am to see Tori for the third time, now. it’s basically a religious experience for me.
trying to describe a place you love, and desperately wish to return to. i can talk for days about places i’ve never been, but i’m drawing a blank on one of the most beautiful places i’ve seen. Nice, you’re avoiding me, or maybe i’m avoiding you. i’ve tried to write about you before, but it has yet to come out right. it just comes out sappy. or, it just comes out nothing but grey cobble stoned beach, with no mention of cerulean bath water. all topless women, and no window boxes brimming over with lavender. all heat and humidity, no rapid fire chatter, in french.
about a year and a half ago, i started writing a series of poems. for various reasons, i stopped. about an hour ago, i started again. ugh. this is exciting/frustrating. i’m so out of practice. it’s going to be a struggle. but here’s something i’m working on (it’s part of a larger set):
It was winter when we arrived
in the city that Peter
created out of swamps; muddy
water. “A sort of Amsterdam
in Russia,” I said. You gave me that
laugh, that says we will
fuck later. And I still find it hard
believing that you can look
over at me in the morning. Candle
light becomes sun rays
extending, undulating across
feet sticking out from underneath
bed clothes. Cracks and pops
burst out of the fire
place. “Will we see the summer
palace?” you ask.