It's Wednesday. It's raining. I'm in my car at my schools parking lot listening to Beach House on one of my favourite college radio stations. My hands are going back to their pale colour (sign of autumns bloom.) I am wearing my favourite beige trench coat and my favourite noir beret. So many favourites, you being one of them. For once in what seems like a long time, I do not feel utterly discontent with myself. In fact, I feel quite good. I'm alright, Bryan. I'm alright, and so are you. I crave warm soup and hot green tea. I crave a metro ride to somewhere far, far away. I crave heart-felt embrace and mail packages with my name on them. My tights are starting to tear. I've always had this thing for beaten up things; books with loose-leaf pages, worn out t-shirts and sneakers, Ginsberg, Burroughs, Jack Kerouac. I like the spurs of sea shell rainbow that form in puddles on black concrete. They remind me of the ** Coexist album cover, as well as bits of recalled memories from my childhood. "Why do you come here? Why do you hang around? I'm so sorry. Why do you come here when you know it makes things hard for me?" Goodness, Morrissey in his Smiths days makes me feel so in tact with my youth. Black is such a cool colour. Cool is such a cool word.
Swim in a puddle with me, Bryan. We can leave our coats on if you'd like.
I want to be foolish with you. Be my autumn valentine.
February doesn't need to know we're here.