i.
a girl in a dress the color and texture of storm clouds and cigarette smoke, which whips around her ankles in the wind. black hair in her face, you watch her twirl. her feet bleed on the dry cracked earth.

ii.
days pass and she's still not home. no one worries. no one cares. she'll be fine.

iii.
once, in spring, on a weekend, she dragged you to the beach and you waded waist deep into the cold Pacific. she dares you to go farther and her reckless ravenous joy makes you grin.

iv.
she will never love you back. you understand and stand back. she is storm clouds and cigarette smoke, and you are meatspace and books.

v.
'you read too much,' she tells you. 'and always fiction. that's why your head's in the clouds all the time. what's wrong with this world?'

vi.
'i don't think she's coming back this time.'

he lifts a cig to his lips. 'that's what i tell myself every time.'

vii.
she can't love you back. she can't afford to.

'tch. what a melodramatic explanation. plenty of people disappear.'

viii.
you always meet her in that field.
the cracked earth and solid toned sky a background to your memories of her. they're a part of her, in your mind. you go there to think. the field is part of you, too, now. it feels empty. you feel empty.

ix.
'the thing i don't like about this world is that she will never return to me, or love me.'

x.
she's in the field on a spring sunday and it feels like worlds are colliding when you see her face. you go to the beach and you wade out hand in hand.

ah, the anonymity of virtualization. a place where words are broken into bits and therefore harder to trip on. if only I was so eloquent in meatspace. some have achieved a subtleslick lethal elegant, a fluid flowing smooth-like-butter love affair with words. writing, like seduction, takes practice and street smarts to master. my relationship with words is fragile-soft shy. young love, cautious and sweet. a virginal coyness; the words maddeningly slip through my fingers like dreamsand. I chase after the right words through hyperbolic forests, slay dragons, kiss her (what else would Language be?) soft and hard, love her wrong and love her right. but girls leave you, always, starstruck and drunk with love or infatuation or lust or all three. Even language. even language.