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 –