2003-01-05
6:45 p.m.
.
My hair smells like you, and that's without us having touched today. I'm happy with how things aren't, revolted by how they might have been. I hold it near and discuss the ramifications dispassionately, as though I am not woven into this history, as though it won't take years for me to pick the threads of you out of me again. I changed my flight. It's tuesday night. Hear the hope in my throat? I'm hoarse but I'm singing, I'm turned again with my back towards my new home and my face against a sunset. Listen up, kid. .
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