from Friday, June 15, 2001
because I don't feel much like writing the kinds of things that go here today and this says enough of it

five more hours

Going. To be out. Away. To be closer than fine. As it rains, the clock moves heavy with anticipation. And I want a phone call, a latte, cigarettes. Anything to keep my heart from pounding like this – to keep my heart pounding like this. And I long to say the things I dare not. To touch you with an imagined significance. To leave the bed unmade. To pack what remains of this life into a brown storage box and run. But it seems these walking shoes have worn a bit too thin. These lines too fraught with contemplation. The silence too long.

I’ve missed my chance. And your words stick in my ear –

the lots of sleep mentioned in previous post

yeah. still need it.

can someone remove my contacts for me?

party done.
bar afterward.
all alcoholic beverages in the house drunk after that.
but i so wanted to make a post about my conversation with julesie from earlier
about the difference between truth and the things we believe
and how wrong i am sometimes
no chance for that now
need sleep
and lots o' it
cause i don't know what i'm doing any more

no style to speak of

+ +

consorting adults

i’ve just remembered that i’m going to a get together tonight. now . . . what to wear?


even though i've loads of work to do today
i keep checking for posts and such instead

it's just that reading this scenario about "Greg" (no, not you Gregg) and his supposed writing assignments isn't really holding my interest. then there's theory to be consumed like stale bread. let's look at some, shall we?

from Berlin's "Contemporary Composition: The Major Pedagogical Theories"

"To teach writing is to argue for a version of reality, and the best way of knowing and communication it -- to deal, as Paul Kameen has pointed out, in the metarhetorical realm of epistemology and linguistics. And all composition teachers are ineluctably operating in this realm, whether or not they consciously choose to do so.”

oh. oh, yes. that’s quite right. and i’m just sure of it.

on the flip side

travel means getting to see some really incredible people
i miss them dearly and often

things that suck

making travel plans/flight reservations
there went the morning. oi.

speaking the language of jet planes

I wonder if I’ll ever be able to escape these feelings. The urgent desire to scream until my lungs explode. Maybe this is what it feels like to want to create violence. To be the spark that sets off the fire. Because there are these brief moments of insanity when I’m convinced that crushing myself against something concrete and unforgiving until it hurt might just be better than this. Momentary enough to recognize the images immediately upon surfacing as internal manifestations of my own unexpressed fear, hurt, anger, outrage, animosity, indifference . . .. So I push it away in order to keep moving. But the pressure remains. Making it difficult to draw breath. To see colors with my eyes closed. To imagine what it would feel like to not feel like this.

i don't even remember making that post last night.
too tired, i suppose.
even now -- need more sleep.

crush updates*

Tyrone has such a pretty head. Shaved. The curve in the back near the neck. Lovely ears. Lots of places for one to place lips. And the evidence of rough-neck shoes. Large workman’s hands. His voice is nice, too. Deep and melodic. Until I listened to him for too long today, and realized there could be no crush. It’s strange how quickly people can become unattractive when we don’t like what they’re saying or what they believe in. Cest la vie.

*No this isn’t about you comove-boys**.
**My spellchecker suggested I change that to commode.

the trouble with opposites
How can I possibly read a blog written by a Math PhD student?
Alas. I fear it shall be so. As much as it hurts my sensibilities.

hey. i might have to post some more old stuff.
last june has some interesting things going on.

ah, yes, here it is. from -- Tuesday, June 26, 2001

on being destructive

I ran to get you off my mind. To release this feeling – these resentments
that stain my lips like cheap red wine. Like hot fingertips on my skin. To
pound you out of the soles of my feet into the unforgiving sidewalk.

I ran until my legs and arms were numb. Until thousands of tiny pins
pulled my flesh apart. Until my lungs exploded into flames – then ashes –
then smoke. Until the sun seared my shoulders and forehead into shades of
purple never known. Until my ears rang like ancient drums.

I ran until my body was covered in sweat the scent of black tea. Until my
heart beat so hard that the cut on my arm opened and blood ran down into
my fingers. Until strands of my hair fell loose from their braid and beat
against my face.

i ran until I disappeared

until i collapsed onto my knees into the parking strip – to vomit air and
bitterness and memory until i wasn’t embarrassed that the passing cars
could see until i had taunted my body – until i knew it understood the

and I didn’t want to stop
couldn’t stop
knew I had to press on

you must go on
you have to go on

I kept running
away from
instead of
there were
no words

here’s something

I wondered today after arriving home if working out really hard -- I mean running way past your breaking point -- is almost as satisfying as good sex. I’m not arguing it as a complete substitute. But there are some definite similarities in the feelings it produces. Muscles aching. Mind numb. Skin on fire . . .

Or maybe I’m just wack.
OR maybe I’ve forgotten how it really goes.
Today was a bad day in the weakness department, and that has nothing to do with physical strength.
Maybe I need yoga classes that focus in on my will and conviction.

Off to look for that thing I wrote awhile back about running.


people sure do say i love you a lot when they think you're mad at them

come again?

derrida the movie

oh, my.

making unnecessary connections, or, in avoidance of real work

so, if you haven’t noticed, steve over at comovedy mentions his mole situation quite frequently. [he also links me a fair amount. and i certainly dig that.]

and we’ve both been posting pictures lately.

and this morning while talking on the phone to a great friend and sorting through photos for an album, i happened upon a picture of me on vacation a few years ago. it was taken to record proof of the nasty sunburn i’d just gotten. but this morning it reminded me that i too can post about moles.

what do you do with your mole pictures?
perhaps we should start a blog-ring.

heh. maybe not.

quotable email subjects

today I sent a friend this in the subject line:
collapsible cups and other things not worn in shorts

don’t ask yourself why. really. it’ll only cause trouble.

And I got a response from Mister X. It was an apology/redirection as expected. But this stuck:
I won’t apologize for the way that I love you.

there’s more on that subject, but I need to think about it first.

Here’s one of the best words I’ve heard recently:

sigh. I’d give the donor props, but he’s requested anonymity. fucking patriarchy.

there’s more, but I might save that for tomorrow.

during the picture frenzy
i found an envelope of things i must have been trying to hide from myself. wish i had a scanner. there’s a photo i shot of Paul lighting a cigarette. he’s sitting on the old blue-grey couch in his living room. but the picture is so dark, it’s almost impossible to make out anything but his face. we were usually in low light. i had a habit of over-exposing in those days. and it’s a black and white. i remember that night specifically. we were burning candles shaped like pilgrims. and i shot an entire roll of film to document their shape shifting. we ate M&Ms. the girl burned out faster. there’s a picture of the plate of wax. the boy’s shoes didn’t melt completely. and it’s all just a bit surreal. in one, i swear i can almost make out bryan’s form. i’ve no pictures of him. i decide it’s just a shadow. there are other things. bottle tops and movie stubs. a shoe lace. one blue cat’s eye marble. the quarter paul gave me when he went away. and two letters. i didn’t open or read either. but i might. soon. i know what words are in there. waiting for me. i know one is from bryan and the other one isn’t. and they both play at not being confused or sad. i know one was meant as a way to say goodbye without really saying it.

and i curse the way images get lost in the mind. i can’t even see his face these days.

more left-overs?

me in the process of making empanadas

was making a picture collage
but gave it up

and this

found items

still on the phone

it’s late and I’ve been drinking vodka for hours
there’s something on the label about smoothness
but I’m too lazy or too drunk to remember for sure
all I know is that I keep laughing and laughing
and jules says that he doesn’t know anything anymore
and I’ve forgotten if we’re being serious
or ourselves
or ridiculous
I never know where the line is
maybe it keeps moving
but I should be paying attention and not typing while I’m talking
I’m going to shut off all the lights and get into bed
and let his voice get dissected and reassembled over the lines
until I’ve forgotten about everything else
jules voice is like home sometimes
it’s nice to get lost in that
almost like a long sought after embrace

i'm talking to jay on the phone

telling him about the day's events and he says . . .
girl, what the fuck are we gonna do with you?
and we laugh and say fuck a lot
you got hoes in all different area codes

and ludacris references are always apropos

other curiosities

i heard the word chinoiserie on the tube again today.

if you want a side of fries, then go to mcdonalds

After too much coffee and a very satisfying cigarette in the almost dark, I’m ready to vent this. However raw, unflattering, and inappropriate.

Today I wrote to Mister X and said –

I want no more of this.
Go fuck yourself.

among other things and many more curses. The option of fucking yourself provides an alternative to his constant suggestion of placing me as the object of that verb. And I needed to make my answer to that suggestion, again, very clear. It’s not like I haven’t said it before or that, possibly, I won’t have to say it again. But it felt good to stand my ground and to keep solid in the stance. To say, I will not meet you here or there under these circumstances or any other, and the fact that you keep reducing our friendship to sexual contact lacks the level of dignity, character, and respect that I consider necessary to the progression of any deep meaningful relationship.

He’ll apologize, I’m sure. There’ll be a message waiting for me sooner or later to explain how I misunderstood. How he meant his comments as flattery rather than innuendo. Sometimes I want to phone his house to say, If I wanted someone to fuck me, there are two or three people I’d choose before you. But however true that might feel, I probably wouldn’t say something like that in any given scenario.

I’m not sure how or why I seem to get myself into these situations.
Maybe I do.
Maybe that’s the problem.
The whole lot of it is – I can see myself being at fault in this thing.
And I wonder if it all didn’t begin with me.
fuck it.
fuck, fuck, fuck

two things that gave me great joy today

Some one on a tv show used one of my favorite words, chinoiserie, several times. Don't hear it all that often.

And I was reminded of one of my favorite names, Hillel, by someone else.

renditions of fractured window morning sunshine

my bones ache, sometimes. leaves me lulling under the sheets in the lush citron hue. wondering who snuck up close and ground my frame into fine shiny bits overnight. this morning I could not rise. day dreams kept me company under the sheets. let loose from reality and other things that greet me with a sting as i wake.

morning called me so many times to the warm spicy tones of your voice and hot coffee from the deli across the street. the light filled with sweet lime. mainly i think about your bike hanging from an s-hook above the bed. and that when we talked in the mornings, i would reach up and mindlessly spin the wheel with my toes. your laugh was in there somewhere among the endless whirring cycles.

fast posting

i'm standing up at a bank of computer terminals waiting for my seminar to begin
yesterday i found out that all of the planning i had been working on for months is basically not going to work for this project and that i'm going to have to do it all over again in just a few days. totally deflated and worried. i hate it when my legs get kicked out from under me.

there's so much to blog about right now, but i don't have the time or even the words.
maybe on my lunch break, then
off for more of feeling like a loser --

tomorrow i begin the first day of the rest of my life

wait. check that. i'm only starting back to work.
life officially over.


Why am I reading the Battle of Maldon at close to midnight on a Saturday? Fuck that noise. Why would anybody? And what’s with weird vibes and other inexplicable notions?

::some inexplicable notions::
i’ve lost a precious roll of film
i made a video recording to send to some friends as a surprise
today i purposely taped a Road Rules marathon over the top of it
when i stay awake for long periods of time i stop making sense
i haven’t slept much lately
my first car was a 1978 hi-gloss black Camaro with red and white racing stripes
it could not handle speeds over 60 mph
my insurance company eventually canceled my policy when they realized that I was driving a high performance vehicle
i suggested that my agent take a ride with me to survey the performance level
he declined
last night at about this time i ran across the parking lot to throw a fresh painting into the dumpster
and lately this has been weighing on me –
if it’s really “more xxx action than you can handle,” then who would really be interested in going there?
i try to avoid feeling overwhelmed
among other things
perhaps i’m in the minority
other things that put me in the minority:
I like the word shambolic
I know how to handle myself on scree

. . . this warrior replied:
"I that swear, that from here I will not
flee a foot's space, as my desire is to advance further,
avenge in battle-strife my lord and friend.
I have no desire among Sturmere's unyielding heroes
to reproach my word, now that my patron has perished,
that I now lordless go on a homeward journey,
having turned away from battle, but rather I shall be taken by
either spear or iron." Wrathfully he advanced,
fighting resolutely, for he despised flight.

The Battle of Maldon Lines 245-254


he calls three times
each rings through to the machine
where i have to first withstand a tinny version of myself
then his clucking tones
pick up, pick up, pickup
i don’t answer until the last time
when instead he begins with this –

Among twenty snowy mountains

i make him say the whole piece
afterward we talk for awhile about recent regrettable events
and we both agree that we’re responsible for ourselves in every moment
that you pay for your own fuck-ups
that one way or another we’ll make it through
we’ve both had too much to drink
i don’t think either one of us feels any better
this time we exchange i love yous
and i end up feeling stunned at the span of the week
without direction
i’m going outside to smoke a cigarette

lessons in running away

Jules called en route to Coeur d’Alene. He’s on his way to visit Boonie for the weekend. But confided that his main reason isn’t the visit -- it’s avoidance. Jules has managed to consume another woman and is allowing the repercussions to include leaving the state. Ri-fucking-diculous. Apparently, this one, who I’m fairly confident doesn’t even have a name, didn’t quite understand that sex with Jules didn’t mean he’d fallen in love with her. [He might not even like you all that much.] And she’s not taking the residual nope-I-just-wanted-to-have-sex-with-you-jules very well. I don’t blame her. The way he behaves, sometimes, makes me sick to my stomach. I told him he needed to get his terms straight with these women beforehand. But he’s heard the speech before. He knows how disappointed these affairs make me. Most of the reason for this call centers around his need for absolution. As if telling me about it will make the world right again. I advised him to wear a warning label at all times that says something about his corporeal madness. He laughs. I don’t.

We exchange accusations and expletives.

He only sleeps with all of these women to keep them at a safe distance, because he’s terrified of actually loving someone.

I’m comfortable staying some place I shouldn’t be, because I’m afraid of being vulnerable.

Looks like we’ve both got terms to get straight: Lust. Love. Security.

But I didn’t offer that information. I asked him to leave me out of it. Reminded him that this was his phone call and that he should probably get back on the road. He promised to call me later. I lied and said that I would probably be out.

If you call, I said. I’m not going to answer the phone. I don’t feel much like talking.
Decide that then,he sighed. Because I am going to call.

I told him to drive safely and to tell Boon that I said hey.
He said I love you before I had the chance to hang up the line.

after too much to drink you become
smoky topaz and sterling silver
Cointreau – neat, in a tall semi-transparent glass
the desire to sleep hard into the afternoon


right now I am bored and restless

on being tired

sometimes even I believe that I’ve grown acute
the kind associated with disease
rapid, severe, intense
but a small part of me doesn’t believe it
that’s the piece that keeps telling me to go
keeps whispering in my ear like a devil that this cannot be it
the worry comes out here
fog-headed and disastrous
spilled like white on water

this isn’t all there is

today: things that held a providential recovery

ice cream

full stop

I wonder what it would cost to get to any one of you?

state of emergency

I long to hear some Steel Pulse or Black Uhuru
but, alas, they aren’t highly accessible right now.
So Smoke by Boom Shaka plays instead
and I rock my head
roll my eyes
music is good for a soul ache

apologizing for yourself

between yesterday and tomorrow
i walk to the used bookstore in search of another copy of Allison’s Cavedweller
use most, but not all, of the last bit of money I’ve been hiding
my rat money
for just in case i need a bus ticket, a long distance call, a rain coat
at home i sit with the text in my lap for a long time
open the cover and write in the empty white space that precedes the title page
i don’t begin with a salutation
i’m not after cordiality

Because some day we are both going to die.
And I don’t want to picture you in those days --
lying in a bed – a reduced version of yourself --
looking like you never had the power to knock anyone around
and believe for one minute that either one of us
might still feel some kind of guilt or remorse over actions
that were mostly beyond our control.
I wanted to hate you, but never could.
You wanted to love me, but didn’t know how.
I told you a year ago that forgiveness came long ago.
It was a lie I wanted both of us to believe.
Because you are the only person I’ve ever known who has
made me consider myself in the past tense.
And I realize now that in contacting me, you were attempting
to close one of your wounds. I wasn’t able to hear you then.
But now I want to say that I don’t hold you responsible for those days
when we mixed our lives together and found nothing but anger.
This isn’t meant to be the start of a dialogue. I don’t desire a response.
I want to close the door to something awful, because it isn’t
what my life needs to be about. Even though you’ll be there always.
This, I imagine, is what you wrote to accomplish.
Our lives are infinitely tied together through circumstance
and misunderstanding.
And if you were tired or sick and didn’t know what to do,
I would still care for you – because even things that seem
unconscionable only serve as stern reminders of who we are.

I give these words to you – this novel and my own – as a symbol
of forgiveness and gratitude for contributing to a life less ordinary –

after wrapping the book in plain brown paper
i walk to the post and use my last bit of money to mail it off
there isn’t any wave of emotion
no weights lifted
maybe catharsis isn’t immediate
and as i travel the short distance home
i wonder if it will rain before i can unlock the door and let myself in

keep moving

have spent most of the day on the verge of tears
opening and closing my email -- then never finishing or sending the messages
i don't like feeling this way
like i'm not sure what i'm supposed to be doing or when
or that if i don't do something soon enough -- it's just going to be too late

i probably just need to get more sleep
right now i think i'd travel any number of hours or miles --
just for a warm caring embrace

One of the best sentiments I’ve seen recently:

From Dimmie's 9 things you wish: list –

8. to smile less but more honestly

emergency exits
[note: you should know where yours are at all times.]

Watched Rob Cohen’s latest today – XXX. Have been anticipating the release, and I have to admit that I wasn’t at all disappointed. Like any movie from the action genre, the dialogue in many places suffered and the plot line wasn’t overwhelmingly interesting or developed. And the often-annoying humor was thrown in occasionally. The acting, however, was fair. (How could you go wrong with Vin Diesel and, one of my personal favs, Sam Jackson?)

But what I really should have started out saying is – this movie rocks. I was tempted to stay for the next showing, if only to see the opening sequence again. I’d pay full price to see the first 10 or 15 minutes of the movie again, seriously. It was awesome. Plus there were cameos by Tony Hawk, Eve and others.

If you love action movies and/or extreme sports, then you’ll be covering your mouth and grinning foolishly like a little kid during most of this film. (Wait, maybe that was just me. ; ) )

Lots of other things happened today too.
I painted my toenails red.
But I’m not feeling well. So it’s off to bed. Maybe more tomorrow.

afterward. cell phone. behind the neighbor’s rose bushes.

Do you ever get the feeling that you’re completely wrong?
I suppose only you could give yourself that kind of feeling.
Don’t be trite.
You’re just making excuses again.
Fuck you.
And you’re being belligerent. Insipid and insulting in one conversation. Classic.
You aren’t answering the question.
If you think about it. It really isn’t even a question.

Stop talking around me. I’m sick of it.
I guess I mean – do you ever get the impression that the one person who never seems to fit any of your ideals or requirements – might very well be the only person who’s willing to dedicate his life to you?

That you’re asking for too much?

That you should be thankful for what you’ve got?
I don’t know, man. I get what you’re saying, but there’s a lot to consider there.
You know that already.
Probably is right. I’m sure we’ve had this conversation before.
Do you think it’s fair to assume, though?
I’m not doing this.
I’m not entertaining these phobias.
That wasn’t my intention.
You just can’t know all that. You can’t make bets on it.
I just get beat down sometimes in these situations and it’s hard for me to think.
Think about what you just said and how you want to live your life.
That sounds about right, doesn’t it? But you know as well as I do that nothing’s that easy. That there’s a price for everything – a compromise – a concession. So don’t lecture me on living lives.
It was your question.
Fair enough.
Set it off.
I already have.

READ: Jim Carroll’s "Message Left On A Phone Machine"

if i had the words, i’d give them to you
but right now – they’re only in my head

can you bounce?

dig it.

some nights -- i have way too many useless questions

like what ever happened to The Click?
i mean, that's just quality lyrics
I'm sick as the fuck I see the devil smiling

the single most important poem I’ve ever read

why some people be mad at me sometimes

they ask me to remember
but they want me to remember
their memories
and i keep on remembering

-- Lucille Clifton

don’t you just hate
conversations in which you’ve got to say things like –
Jeeze, well, I’m really sorry. I was exceedingly drunk when I did/said/thought/etc that.
That’s what I’ve been up to today.

say yes to

gin and tonic
gin and tonic
gin and tonic

feeling the burn

managed to have a conversation with paul yesterday in which he called me
and apathetic

he was very emphatic about them all and perhaps used some in combination
it put me off
set me off
the rest of the day went equally downhill
with me leading the way – face first

so today I spent several hours wandering busy downtown streets and empty neighborhood blocks
attempting to reconcile the whole thing
put it all into some kind of perspective
let my feet and my mind take me away
drank a cappuccino with a man named sam
he said I reminded him of his daughter
and I wondered, between sips, if he was real
I had forgotten about the catharsis that comes after running your arms and legs beyond exhaustion
and now I’m left with even more
the words
my questions
this life

I apologized, earlier, for being those things. Paul refused the apology and told me quite plainly to –
just knock it off



In the throes of reading Ishmael Reed’s Mumbo Jumbo again.
I’m fascinated by his concept of the trickster (his Neo-Hoodooism) and
his controversial treatment of women.
I think I dig the fact that his writing says – hey – black men get a bad wrap on every front – and I’m going to use satirical methods so that maybe you’ll break out of your daze and see it. But I suppose that tradition doesn’t prove the messenger always takes home the prize. Swift might be a testament to that.

rambling without segues

also reading Cavedweller by Dorothy Allison. Enjoying it less than Bastard Out of Carolina, which still ranks on my personal best ever list.

saw Signs the other night. I was convinced after seeing Unbreakable (not so much the other one with the ghosts) that Shyamalan is genius and after watching his latest release – I’m even more aware of his importance to film tradition. he’s changing the way stories are told on the big screen. foregoing the gratuitous and expected pay offs and money shots to instead tell the build-up. the climax and resolution aren’t what’s important in these films. and I won’t way Signs is perfect. but it’s probably the best thing I’ve seen so far this year.

I promised myself that I’d work on a paper about John Edgar Wideman’s Philadelphia Fire today, but I’ve barely gotten around to reading the thing over. It’s poorly written and needs much attention before I can send it out. Makes me want to pull out the text and read it again. A powerful novel that I’ve enjoyed many times and on many levels.

off to read. you should too.

i hate this place.
it's so much easier to ignore the fact that you're a complete idiot
without all the written proof.

and that's good and bad
like everything
it seems.

taking it like a man

after a horrible rendition of the pina colada song is cleared from my voicemail
the real Paul-voice tells me that i might consider

your constant dedication to saving other people from themselves
as a distraction from looking at a much closer issue
saving your self from yourself

i’d like to say he isn’t right, but
that’s twice this week i’ve gotten the same message
different words from different people
saying the same thing i’ve been saying over and over again
why do i

things there won’t be much of tonight


Paul rang from his cell about an hour away. They’d been on the road for hours, and I could hear him speaking softly because Andy was asleep on the passenger side.


Andy called from the phone in the front entryway of the house after they had been there for about an hour. 3 p.m. PST. They found Jules asleep in his bed. Fully clothed. Everything -- a wreck. All the shades pulled down.

They’re going to take him to see Petro. Then to Duwamish. To skip rocks and yell at the ocean.

I can’t get the tone of Andy’s voice out of my head -- He won’t let go of Paul. He said filled with surprise and worry. He’s holding on to him like we’re the first people he’s seen in years. And sometimes I wonder with Jules if, honestly, they are.

The few moments I got with Paul were distracted and I’m not sure what he heard. Maybe I’m not even sure what I said. I think this is the anniversary of the accident. Neither one of us is sure, but we agree, regardless, it’s probably the cause.

It must have been about 12 years ago now, that Jules lost both of his parents – one horrible night – in an automobile collision. It’s how we all became friends, really. Walking around like ghosts and holding each other at night to remember that we weren’t the people who had died – even though it often felt that way.

I’m out. I don’t know what to type now. I wish I were home. If only to scoop Jules up and make him listen to my heart beat.

note to self --

at this hour -- no one wants to hear you talk about
1. the representation of couples in Melville
2. cup cakes
3. or your inability to cook edible french toast

go to bed
[*i am still able to use metonymy even when i'm insanely sleep deprived]

what’s a little morpheme between friends?

akimbo might just be my favorite word right now
and that’s so right and so wrong at the same time
where’s the fun if you can’t put a wry sense upon everything?


big props to Third Shade of Green for the link
you rock

-- for steve and the sock

It was her aversion to bare feet that he thought about now, as he loaded the last remnants of her into a thin manila envelope. A few hair clips. The blank book in which she had written him notes. A necklace of thin glassy beads and other insignificant forgotten items. His mind created her in that familiar practice. Padding around the apartment in white athletic socks. Only taking them off to shower. She had always been like this, he thought, just out of my reach.

He had tried to rid himself of her memory. Had already thrown out her toothbrush and thought that by removing her hair from the comb they shared in the bathroom, he might exorcise her completely. But the smell remained, like the impression her body made on the bed where he slept. Indelible. He closed his eyes against the memories and resolved that loneliness and spite must taste exactly like envelope glue.

Later he would mail the package and wait for her to call. The letter enclosed had taken him hours to write, and he was sure that she was just as devastated by their separation. Those waiting weeks brought him close to madness. Frequently locking himself in the bathroom to stand naked in front of the mirror. Proof, he thought, that he was still alive.

She was never coming back.

There was nothing of her left, anymore. Just the gauzy memories he created. And his bones ached for something tangible – anything to prove that he hadn’t been wrong – that whatever they had really existed.

The sock, he whispered as he stood and turned toward the radiator. Started to move closer. Then retreated. No, he thought to himself, leave it. And he knew in that moment that he had to get out -- overwhelmed with the insatiable desire to inhale the air and create new memories to place next to this one.

I remember the time, his mind said as his feet hit the pavement, we made love on my futon. And you pulled off your socks and threw them across the room. How you laughed at the delicacies of our bare feet touching. And I laughed at your sudden act of liberation.

[i know it needs work, but i wanted to get it posted. enjoy ; )]