Feb 2016
i’ve been sick a lot this year. like, little kid sick. with the kind of cough that only a sick little kid would have.
and it’s 2016 and i’m congested in my infested sad grad bachelorette pad. and if i’ve taught myself anything, it’s how to take care of myself. if that’s what too much netflix and not enough water means then i’m a ******* doctor.
my hair is unwashed and my face is about twelve difference colors. and i conclude that yes, i am in fact too gross for groceries.
so today i don’t think i have any tools to collect the courage to talk to the cute boy at the deli even though i’m vegetarian so perhaps it’s not meant to be.
and it’s hot in here. the taste in my mouth is familiar, and i close my eyes trying to place it. through the ringing in my ears at the bathroom sink, i can hear 1996 and you’re there on the phone
and i’m on the couch and you’re not checking on me but you’re balancing your checkbook. tom brokaw on nbc is telling me everything that’s wrong with the world but i hear you laughing and that tells me everything is right.
and the sourness in my stomach makes me think of the suspense of a summer storm. and before tom holden on wkbn turns it over to weather, you tell me that it’s going to rain because the leaves are turning over. and you turned off the tv and you turned on the radio and you lit a cigarette and even though you were out of your suit and in your gym shorts, you looked like the most learned man in the world.
and i open my eyes and i look in the mirror and there you are, staring back at me. it’s even more glaring when i’m tired. you cant make eye contact with me in person anymore but you can't beat the mirror. at least with the magic of a mascara wand i can see the parts of you i want to see.
my stomach turns a little more at the thought of how many times the world has turned since 1996.
whenever it rains in the summer. or i find a picture of you laughing. or chicago comes on the radio, i forget everything you’ve ever done. and you’re the person i want to be again.
and it’s 2016 and i’m congested in my infested sad grad bachelorette pad. and if i’ve taught myself anything, it’s how to take care of myself. if that’s what too much netflix and not enough water means then i’m a ******* doctor.
my hair is unwashed and my face is about twelve difference colors. and i conclude that yes, i am in fact too gross for groceries.
so today i don’t think i have any tools to collect the courage to talk to the cute boy at the deli even though i’m vegetarian so perhaps it’s not meant to be.
and it’s hot in here. the taste in my mouth is familiar, and i close my eyes trying to place it. through the ringing in my ears at the bathroom sink, i can hear 1996 and you’re there on the phone
and i’m on the couch and you’re not checking on me but you’re balancing your checkbook. tom brokaw on nbc is telling me everything that’s wrong with the world but i hear you laughing and that tells me everything is right.
and the sourness in my stomach makes me think of the suspense of a summer storm. and before tom holden on wkbn turns it over to weather, you tell me that it’s going to rain because the leaves are turning over. and you turned off the tv and you turned on the radio and you lit a cigarette and even though you were out of your suit and in your gym shorts, you looked like the most learned man in the world.
and i open my eyes and i look in the mirror and there you are, staring back at me. it’s even more glaring when i’m tired. you cant make eye contact with me in person anymore but you can't beat the mirror. at least with the magic of a mascara wand i can see the parts of you i want to see.
my stomach turns a little more at the thought of how many times the world has turned since 1996.
whenever it rains in the summer. or i find a picture of you laughing. or chicago comes on the radio, i forget everything you’ve ever done. and you’re the person i want to be again.
for my children
