I rub my face in the broken person’s hands like they’re a towel. I’m saying stay with me. I’m saying come back. I can only help if we end up getting lost on the same side of you.

You’ve been waiting a long time for someone to come and release you
from that fish hook cast in your mouth.
As I hurt for you
and mourn my way
    through non-tragedies for you
and wait with an anticipatory eye
    that makes everything premature.
For you
we eat crackers
and I wonder what is    it like
to have blood and steel and sea fill your mouth,
and don’t you want to taste something
other than metallic.
We eat crackers and I wonder
what is it like
until I wonder
what is it not like. 
All the sameness in saneness in saying this. 

your hands reach for everything trying to compensate for all the space you can’t touch       the ones that really matter       auto-correct of the soul       (time)       a wine glass       twice the size of dread       broken bits of stick       the stuff of life      feeling music through your guitar is like handling love by gripping dick so       just don’t say shit like that       even if sometimes       it’s all that really works

I keep thinking we’re going to give everything to each other at once. The last ten years of our lives, all ampersands squeezed into a ball behind our third ribs, but it doesn’t work like that. How can you pay for everything in ones? The one who made me lose my mind. The one who came too fast. The one who made me so, so sorry to leave. The only one who really understood despair and why everything might always be just a little bit sad.

The way you swallow your spit in the dark is unmistakable.

I was in the car and you were still upstairs in my bed. Comfortable isn’t the right word, but it didn’t feel bizarre, either, waiting in the backseat while Andrea ran inside to say goodbye to you. February, you said. You’ll be back in February. Look at us; we’re like those idiots who can’t stop touching things, picking and scratching and peeling at their cuticles while they talk, with no idea what else there is to do with their hands. I know we’re both used to this, but for a while I almost forgot I had hands. I’m sorry this is how it always has to go. But this time we were both closer. Come back soon. No one looks graceful when they fall out of focus like a window.

→ Pickton Storm

Last week we drove to the sandbanks and went for a swim, us in our underwear and Paul naked. When it started pouring on the other side of the water, we watched the lightning storm under blankets by the fire. Luckily, some people are better at life-documenting than I am - Weika has a video on her blog. Nature is kind of beautiful.

Remember the six of us holding roman candles
and all wishing the water in that fountain
was deep enough to dive into -
I think I can start at the parts where you stop.

You said the ground was soaked with wet drip imprints
of us beautiful and us horribly distorted,
and we were flushed against some statue.
We stretched our arms out on either side
until our hands met,
like growing long gnarled barks
around a hundred year old tree.

I remember Conner’s home
was only a fridge, a fireplace,
and a projector playing images
of happy people dancing.

Tell me more about balancing
on top of the statue,
and I’ll tell you about the apartment
and how I saw a snatch of myself on his wall
while spinning on the floor.