Friday, November 4, 2011

cabin fever

these shoes. navy pants. this apartment. my bed (you were here, too). february. that yellow office. my body, on wednesdays and sundays. my body, on tuesdays. my last 2 speeding tickets. clumsy fingers. indiana. anxious heart tissue that lifts so heavy. what i said last night. what i did last week. what i thought last fall. what i’ll say, do, and think this month. your periphery. that glass full of whiskey and just a little bit of coke. tiny tides of desperation. questions asked twice (they make my jaw hurt and head ache). a pots’n'pans kitchen. this voice. our modest dance floor, it’s too damn small. a quiet tidy lie that’s not hurting anyone, save the one who tells it. silent deals. time to watch you leave. library fines. this glacial town that slips on itself. every assumption (one doesn’t know what she doesn’t know). a room of careful, curated emotion. the apologies of a room disrupted. big trouble. the restless wait. these tired, mopey words and my own dumb head.
i want out of everything i’m in.

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