One Hundred and Sixty Seven

I don't know what I'm supposed to do.

I don't know what's right
what's best
what fits.

I don't like not knowing what's right.


This should be simpler than it is.

One Hundred and Sixty Six

Apparently you still dream of me.
I don't doubt that.
I don't doubt you wonder if I wonder about you. I don't doubt you play over that conversation in your head, and think of everything you should've said, and didn't. I don't doubt you regret all those messages after. I don't doubt you hope to run into me sometimes, when you walk by that street, and see that snow.
Sometimes I hope I run into you.
I don't know what I'd say.
I don't miss you.
I thought I did. Some piece of you, however small, some significant morsel of genuine happiness I can take from whatever it was we had. But I don't.
And I don't know if I'm sorry that you do.
I'm happy
without you.

I have always been happy
without you.

One Hundred and Sixty Five

I can feel it.

Beneath my toes, I can feel the rumbling
and a lightness in my head.

I can feel it.
It's like a train, about to arrive.

Like I'm at a train platform, empty, but warm.
There aren't any timetables or clocks
I just know it's coming right on time.

I didn't think it'd be like a train.
I thought it'd be more like the brink of a cliff, like a diving board.
A waterfall.
A pirate ship plank.

I never once thought I wouldn't be the one moving.
I'm not.

It's coming towards me.
It's like a train.

One Hundred and Sixty Four

I can't quite explain it.
Cos it feels like a balloon too, in its own way.
Inflating, inside
and I didn't know I had room for this.

And it feels like skydiving.
Skydiving with the wind hitting so fast and it's not like I haven't had the taste of oxygen,
never had my windpipes so open,
but never like this.

And still it feels like snorkeling, too.
Like warmth, and ease, and a safe, safe lull.
Blue water
deep dark blue
the same deep, patient blue your room faded into
the night I forwent sleep
and


it feels like slipping on a coat
just the right fit.
I didn't know I could find one
that fit so well.
so warm. and
comfortable.
Like a coat I'd passed by so many times, searching for just its fit,
just these size pockets, just this cut and hem, and never once did I notice it
until it just fell from its hangar onto my shoulders
sliding into my hands.

And it feels like none of these things, really.
I can't explain it.

One Hundred and Sixty Three

I feel like
you make me be
the best person I can be.

Like I'm just the best, most caring, most open, most giving person I can be.
Like I'm realizing my full potential.
Like I could have always been this person,
but now I am.

And yet I'm still me. I'm not trying. I'm not changing. I just am.
You make me be
the best version of myself.

One Hundred and Sixty Two

Are you awake?
There's just something real fast I want to say to you.

Don't look so worried.
Why are you?
This is nothing but good.

And you don't have to understand it.
I understand if you don't.
(I can understand for both of us
i can be patient
for all of us.)

just please don't fight it
and please just try real hard to listen.

I want to share this with you
because you deserve to share this with me.
You deserve to have the opportunity
to be closer to me
to be happy for me.

Please take it.
Please please take it.

One Hundred and Sixty One

A letter I won't send
that you wouldn't have read anyway.

There are two things I genuinely want for you.

The first
to be incandescently happy.
I do, I want you to be loved. I want you to be put first. I want you to be cared for, and cherished. I want you to be reassured and listened to, and protected. I want you to be safe. I do.
And kids. I want you to be healthy enough to get pregnant, and have all five of those kids. I want you to have that blue picket fence, those white windowsills. I want you to have that womens' sewing circle on Sunday. And I want you to live a long, happy, healthy life.

And secondly
to have this life
far
far away from me.
I want you to reach a point in your life where you can be mature enough to be civil but never have a need for me in your life, never want me back, never want me to call, never imagine yourself in my arms. Never pine, never want, never need what you're never going to have again.

One Hundred and Sixty Six

Things I don't have words for:

- Unbearable pain
- Unstoppable anger
- The first time you grip me
as hard as I always do.

One Hundred and Sixty Five

What if I don't get in?
You will.
But what if I don't?
You will.
Yes. Yes, I realize everyone is saying that, alright? I realize they're saying that because that's what I would say. But what. if I don't? What if I actually don't? What if they all reject me? All of them?
Well. You move on.
..I move on?
Yeah.
To what? To where? Where will I go?
Anywhere.
..anywhere?
Yes.
How?
You just will.
I can't do that.
Yes you can. There's more to life than school. You know this. I know you do. Somewhere deep down you still know this. You have always been more than just a mark, an evaluation. This won't be the end of you.
You're wrong. You're so wrong. But you're being kind. Maybe that's what I need.

One Hundred and Sixty Four

I just thought of it the other day: Trust.

Trust isn't built with time.
You're wrong.

I should've told you that, back when we were still on speaking terms. (Remember when we were still on speaking terms?) Maybe I'll just write you a letter.
I mean you never read them, but..

Anyway. You're wrong.
She doesn't have to trust you.
She doesn't have to.

She shouldn't have to 'just cos' you've known one another for so long, or 'just cos' you've never done anything to break that trust. You don't trust someone just cos they haven't given you reason not to. You trust someone after you get to know them, and see them, and let them see you, and you trust someone who should be trusted, cos they're the kind of person who is inherently trustworthy.
You don't deserve to be trusted.

You have no sense of privacy
only a need to flash about to attract as many eyes as possible, as much murmuring as your silly head can hold in at a time.
You have no sense of respect
only a giddy reaction to absolutely everything and a twisted skill to morph it into something about you, then blabbing lips to tell everyone it does not concern.
And you have no sense of patience
only a temperate attitude to getting through things the quick route around, casting aside poingancy and causal honesty, a cold and annoyed grimace.

Love you?
How could anyone
let alone me
love you
when they can't trust you as far as they can throw you

One Hundred and Sixty Three

I can't help but think


you would know what I want.


If, somewhere along the way, we hadn't lost each other
if you hadn't stopped looking for me
if I hadn't dropped the white flag
You would be an immense help
right now.

You know me.

One Hundred and Sixty Two

It hasn't gone away.

I thought it would.
Actually...
I don't know if I honestly thought it would.
I know I was okay if it didn't come back.
I think I'm still okay if it doesn't come back.
I don't think I need it, back.

It hasn't gone away, my second guesses about programs. It hasn't gone away, my exhaustion with all of it. It hasn't gone away, my laissez-faire attitude towards writing for the stage. This feeling of not wanting to study writing, day in and day out. This unstoppable feeling of placing writing so much farther down my list of worries, and cares, and priorities.
It isn't that it isn't important.
It isn't that I had a traumatic experience.
It isn't that I'm scared of rejection. (I don't think.)

I think I've just lost a bit of care.
I think I've genuinely lost care, in it.
I think I just don't
want

to wake up every morning
and have to write
have to improve
have to listen to what people say about these words.


That doesn't sound fun, anymore.
And it doesn't sound important, to me.
and I know I've felt this way for a while.
And it hasn't gone away.

One Hundred and Sixty One

I felt you, today.

I've missed drawing so much lately. It started in the summer, I'd missed the quiet, simple challenge of curves and lines and shades. Every body is similar, there is nothing surprising, and yet there is, to the trained, cautious, patient eye, every body is remarkable and distinct, every twist of skin and curve and fold, everything is new yet familiar yet pliable. I remember when the models would move, but so subtly, just to stretch themselves, and nothing changed in my perspective. How trained they were, to understand the human body so well. It's so different from writing. But you knew that. You knew that it's so different, such a different grip on a pen, to charcoal. Precise strokes, is all they are. Imitations of life. Some closer than others.

I felt you, today, right beside me at times. "Don't forget," you said in my ear, as I made the same mistake I always do with the neck. I was very rusty, I kept messing up the waist, and I couldn't get the right breast right. But you reached out and stilled my frustrated hand and told me to move on, continue with the fabric, don't get so bogged down in what you can't do. I shaded just as well as I always do, kept my wrist loose and fingers tight. "Looser," you said to me, when I was doing the forearm. By the fourth time I'd erased the neck I wanted to give up completely, but you gripped my hand over my pencil and told me I was doing the best I could. No one's judging.

It isn't the best, the finished product, I still have a long way to go. But I always did, I was never the best. But that's not the point, is it. That's not really the point of drawing the human figure, to be the best. Only to try your best. And when it was done, I held it from arm's length and you put your hand on my shoulder and said, "It's a good one. Keep working at it." The head isn't as tilted as it should be, and I gave up on the left thigh.

Keep working at it, you always said. Nothing's ever finished. Maybe writing is, some written pieces, there's a finish line, when you can't add more. But there's always work to be done on the human figure. You are not the one to feel when it's done. You are not the one to show this invisible faith in yourself, or to ask someone to lend you the authority to say Yes. Yes, this is beautiful. And done.

It isn't. You're never done with the human figure, not really. You have to be patient, precise, understanding. And most importantly of all, take all the time you need.

One Hundred and Sixty

I had a dream about you, the other night. I saw you in a French cinema as it ended and I walked out, strolling along the Seine river. And you chased after me, the way you did so many years ago, put your hand on my shoulder. We chatted awkwardly, then fell back into that ease we always had, and you smiled, and you asked me where I was going. To a bakery, of course. You came along and we walked beside one another, and you filled a hole inside me that I didn't know was there, again.
"I'm glad you're here," I said to you, "I'm glad you found me."
I miss you.
More and more, with every day that goes by.





I had a dream about you, too.
Immediately after Parisian walks, I dreamt we met at a party. Figures. I saw you approaching, so surprisingly friendly. I tried, so hard, to ignore you. Pretend like I was preoccupied. Walked out of the room when you skipped in. But you eventually turned me around with a smile, put your hand on my shoulder, and I felt it creep around my neck, even.

I know, though, you know.
I'm not stupid. I do know.
I know we could've been, genuinely, very very good together.
If you weren't such a horrible person, and everything that I hate about people in general,
I think we could've been very very good together.

One Hundred and Fifty Nine

I'm very well aware that I don't have a 'Theatre' tag.
I always think I should.
I've been tempted to start one, on multiple occasions.

But clearly it isn't imperative.

The truth is
I don't know if I like theatre that much.

Maybe I'm just a writer
who happens to write plays
every now and then.

There is little doubt in my mind
that playwriting might not be the best choice for me.

I know that a very - very - small part of me
wants to take next year off.

But you can't afford what you can't afford.

One Hundred and Fifty Eight

I saw you in McMed the other day.

(what were you doing in McMed....
and are you there every Tuesday and Thursday?)

I was rushing out so I didn't stop.

But if I didn't have to go
I wonder if I would've stayed.

It wouldn't be that hard.
Staying with you. It wouldn't be that hard.

"Hey there stranger. I'm sorry I can't talk right now, I've got to rush to hand in a paper. But I've been wanting to talk to you for a while now. I miss you, now more than ever. I miss you more than I ever thought possible, and it just grows with every day. A lot's happened since we've last spoke and I want to share it with you. I want to hear about how you've been, too. What are your plans? Where are you going? Can I come with you? I'm busy this week but I'd love to grab some tea with you next week. Let's catch up. Do you have my

Oh. We already have each other's phone numbers
don't we."

One Hundred and Fifty Seven

I don't remember the last time I've ever felt so uncertain.
It's so terrifying.
I don't even like thinking about it, too often, too much.

I think I'm too ambitious for my own good.
Maybe school's been too easy.
A lot of things I've had have felt too easy, for me.

I work, but do I really?
Do I really deserve what I have
do I really deserve this education I've had
or have I just gotten lucky
and it ends here.

Maybe I'm not that good of a student
and now we're all about to realize it.

If there's one thing I can't do about crowds
about people
it's the way they have this unwavering trust in me
unwavering faith that I'm going to be something
excellent. astounding. amazing.

If there's one thing I can't do about it all,
it's the expectation.
Just tell me I'm great today.
Tell me I'll be great tomorrow.
Tell me I'm more than what I can do.

I don't think I can do as much as you think I can.

One Hundred and Fifty Six

I wish
I could be in a room with words.


Literally in a room
in front of a huge, floating, rotating orb
of words.


All the words I know.

I could walk up to it
and I'd be able to touch them
lightly
and they'd bound and jiggle in mid-air
like floating bubbles.

I'd take some and bring them together, collide them into sentences I could hold,
and they'd light up into these bright block words,
like Christmas lights,
and I could wrap them around me.

I wonder what 'trust' would feel like.

One Hundred and Fifty Seven

Dear Words,

Where are you?

When it comes to distance, when it comes to the impossibility of physical hugs, of the tangibility of holding someone in place, calming them, stroking their hair, being there and being there. When it comes to the distance that is university life, when not even a hand on another is possible, when it comes to the bad times, when words are all I can offer on a very, very busy day, when it comes to a limited amount of contact, when there is only one hour for me to give, words, please come when I need you. Please help me be there for them.

One Hundred and Fifty Six

I found somebody.

I wasn't looking for it.
It just sort of happened.

I mean
it didn't 'just happen'.
I...I made it happen. I let it.
I let it happen.

But for all intents and purposes, I never looked for it. I just found it.
Or it found me.
It crashed into my life when I least expected it, didn't really need it,
didn't know I wanted it. And it grew.
It grew into something organic and fair-trade and green green
green like the earth from space so green it looks blue.

And it's everything you never told me it'd be.
Probably everything you never got around to admitting I could have.

I don't know if I can share this with you.
I don't know if I'm ready, quite yet, to have to care
to have to worry
about what you think of this.

Could you just
be happy?

Is there a way you could hear this.
All of this. What I'm saying.
Is there some way you could hear all this
and just be happy?

Cos I am.
I found somebody.

me.

One Hundred and Fifty Five

In restrospect;

You're very tall.

And that's not your fault. And I don't mean it to be an insult, or something you take away as a negative comment. It's not even a bad thing. To be tall.
But just..
In retrospect, you're very tall.

And I think - I know - I remember
I remember one of the few times we hugged
(really hugged)I remember awkwardly thinking, "...wait."
I couldn't figure out where to bury my head.
How to balance my chin.
When to breathe.

I chalked it up to nerves.
I think..I didn't want to ruin us. I didn't want to ruin this idea of us that I had built in my head.
I didn't want to add a tagline, a footer note, to you.

But in retrospect, you're very tall
and I don't think we fit very well together.

One Hundred and Fifty Four

I remember

a distracting office. a phone call across the country, clear across provinces to your mom. cold air brushing in. a sinking pothole of a couch. time creeping by so agonizingly slowly. a cubicle of a room. i was falling asleep. so worried. about everything. and so tired.
and tired of being worried. and worried of my exhaustion.


You turned your body just slightly
(or maybe purposely towards me)
and your hand moved onto my arm
slowly moving, gripping, touching and holding me in place.



so casually.


and I felt

so safe
and calmed.

One Hundred and Fifty Three

It's weird thinking I won't be here next year.
After so much waiting, it's finally here
and it's even less than a year.

In less than a year I won't be here.
I don't know where I'll be.

But I won't be here.

One Hundred and Fifty Two

It's funny how the weather has been beautiful recently.
Funny how late Autumn is this semester.

I walked home the other night, pacing my steps in a darkened neighborhood, observing the trees and noting their leaves had turned yellow so late this year, really so very late. When I rounded the corner of my street I finally at long last realized the leaves had just begun to fall. The street was just recently paved red and orangey-green with tints of proud yellow.

Strange. How time is, this semester.

One Hundred and Fifty One

I think I lied.

I think I said it wouldn't matter, as long as it was reciprocal.
I think I said it would've been special just cos it was reciprocal.

But I'm starting to think
I wouldn't have wanted it with anyone else.

One Hundred and Fifty

Dear ridiculous social networking site #452;

There is something inherently wrong
about how you differenciate yourself from other websites because the other websites are ruining tangible social interaction and becoming a casuality in a lack of connection and effective realistic collaboration when


You are a website.


just saying.

One Hundred and Forty Nine

Yknow what I do think about often, though?
Is timing.


I think you came into my life at a very specific time. A kind of stupidly ironically convenient time for you to walk through those doors on that night,
when I'd stupidly ironically conveninently chugged an entire pint of beer
on an empty stomach.

It wasn't smart.

Nothing about us was smart.

Only folly.
Pure folly and folly and more folly, fed on dreams and maybes and flirting with fire that you made me think was there. But there was nothing there. Only dreams and maybes.

And now only anger
and avoidances.

I try so hard to not regret you.
You make it really hard, though, sometimes.

One Hundred and Forty Eight

Right around

here. now.

is when I start thinking I should've just stayed.
I should've just

stayed there.

One way or another, instead of the rest of this life, I want to just stay there, lying on an unparallel couch in an empty apartment between raves and angry washing machines, with a discarded watch and switched off phone, with my cares in my bag and my bangs in your hand. I should've just stayed there. I would like to have remained there in an almost perfect moment of halted time and delayed concerns.

I'll keep it, though. I'll keep it with me.
Feel it;
feel your fingers, hear your breaths,
on a loop.

I'll keep it safe.
I'll protect it.

One Hundred and Forty Seven

Okay. Well. Yes. In restrospect, yes. Yes.

In retrospect, that would've been a good time.
On one of the last warm October nights in Montreal,
- maybe the last one of the year -
with a beautiful chilly rainfall descending like snow on natural curls
and warm cheeks.
In comfortable silence and underneath lights and lights and more night lights.
And colourful waterfalls, and later, tea.
Warm tea in quiet kitchens and quiet rooms and quieter moments
and honest stories.


Yes. Yes, in retrospect, that would've been a very good time.

I'm

just






silly.


so so silly.

One Hundred and Forty Six

My friends write really well.
And I don't know if that's insecurity or fawn or biased opinion shining through. But I think they write phenomenally well. It's weird to think about how young a writer I am, compared to them. Weird to think that - really - I was quite late.
I can't remember what I used to do before writing.
How can I be late if...

Timing is strange. I never quite seem to understand it.
If I had a time machine I'd never know what to do with it.
It always seems as though there are multiple strands in my life that burst into their own line of actions, each a different colour or shade, my entire life a ball of multi-coloured yarn.
And then conversely it feels like it's all just one long string that twisted and faded into different colours, like an Autumn leaf. How am I supposed to know where things started, when things began? And does it mean..
Does it mean nothing really ever ends?
not...not really?

One Hundred and Forty Five

I miss you.

Not all the time.

Not all the time, cos I know I have to be patient.
I know I have to listen. I know I have to wait.
It's all I do.Wait.

So not all the time. But sometimes.
Sometimes, I miss the person you used to be.

I miss the way I could trust you.
And the way you could look at me
without wanting anything from me.

And I miss our tea dates. And I miss the ease
our comfort.

I miss being able to watch movies with you
without having to worry
about everything.

I don't regret the past few years.
I've said what I had to. It was right for me.
I don't regret anything I've done.
But I wish you'd be better. I wish you'd be faster at this.

This in particular.

I wish you could believe I can do this.
I wish you could tell me what friends can tell me.

I wish you could believe I'm the kind of person
(the kind of lover)
who's dependable. and honest. And worthy.

One Hundred and Forty Four

I had a dream of you, of us, last night.

You were sleeping in my bed, resting on your side, cuddled up beside me, and I stroked your cheek lightly, drawing a sleepy contented smile. And suddenly an actor appeared standing, at the foot of my bed, standing there sternly with unjudgingeyes, hands at his side, he recited Hamlet's lines to Ophelia. And his eyes slowly raked from mine to your sleeping body, and try as I did to shield you, he stopped speaking. And he pointed at you with a professional tone.

"That won't last," he said with an air of familiarity, "That won't work. You won't let it." And I scrambled to reach him, to push him down like a standing piece of paper, to crumple him to the ground, dissolve his words into the carpet, but the covers, and your arm now suddenly around my waist, held me down.

"You'll be trapped,"he observed, "You can't do this. You're not like the rest of them. You're not built for this." And the covers tightened moreso around my waist and I was suddenly strapped to the bed, fighting your arm off me, fighting the suffocating bedsheets. His eyes went kinder, and for the briefest of moments, I saw my parents in his misunderstanding, condescending, sorry sorry eyes.

"You're not built for this," he repeated as he shook his head in disappointment. And then with a blink he was gone, and you withdrew your hand from my waist to put beneath your head, and the covers went loose around my legs, and I laid awake in the night, staring at the ceiling, feeling the room inhale and exhale with me. I remember turning to you, slowly, before reaching out and pulling you closer, close enough to feel your heartbeat.

One Hundred and Forty Three

I saw you in the metro the other day.

I could've sworn it was you, at Lionel, I was so convinced, even from the distance, from your haircut, from your different hoodie, from all the way across the platform. I could've sworn it was you because I'd recognize you anywhere. And as the metro arrived I just stared at you, and I think you stared back.

When you got off at Peel and I stayed on for McGill, you took the long way around to walk up the stairs in front of me, narrowly avoiding my gaze. And I fought, for the briefest of moments, my feet to jump out and chase you. Instead I just watched you, and I laughed to myself that usually this was my stop. Usually I too would take those stairs, turn that corner, head down that hallway, and for the past few years I always secretly hoped we would pass one another, we would meet again, and make pleasantries.
And that day, the first and possibly only day we would ever find ourselves here, we couldn't. For a reason so simple as a DVD that needed to be returned at a very specific time on a very specific day in a very specific library closest to a very specific metro.

It's so odd, isn't it.
That theatre of all things kept us apart.

or

or maybe I finally have nothing left to say to you.
(I sincerely doubt that, though. I have a lot of things to tell you. Like I'm happy. I'm happy, these days, in a way that I genuinely never knew I could be. It's terrifying and new and everything no one told me it'd be.
But I'm happy. And I really hope you are, too.)

One Hundred and Forty Two

Iva.
Anastasia.

I didn't know you.
Either of you.
Not really.
So I didn't go to your funerals.

But there hasn't been a day that's gone by
that I don't think of you.

I keep trying to measure my life in love for you.

One Hundred and Forty One

It's like

you don't even know
how romantic I find you.

How even the little things
the tiny sentences
the small glances
the offbeat giggle
just -

make me realize
what swooning feels like.

this is what it feels like....?

It's very nice.

One Hundred and Forty One

I will always remember it.

You gripped my shoulders and held me close
and though I could smell that alcohol on your breath, I knew this was it, this was the moment, and I took a breath as you did as well.
And you told me to live.

Told me to live
and love
- and now. today. -
because time is precious
and this last year
will pass so much faster than I think it will.

And like that, every fear and regret
flashed into your eyes
and I felt every worry and yearning I've ever felt in turn.
Every crossroad, every opportunity, every choice.

You made me promise.
And as if I hadn't been planning on living this year to the fullest,
I shook my head and loved you in your eyes
and promised.

One Hundred and Forty

I'm still so bad at receiving compliments on my writing.
I don't know why.

When I click on the tags in this blog, all comments on writing are about how it's holding me back, about how scared I get of losing myself in words, or resentment. So much resentment; I tend to see that words are lovely but they also hold me back. And ironically in my wordy search for truth, I've only found that words are everything but truth. Maybe the better writer I am the better liar I am, too. The better webs I can spin, the better worlds I can create, the further I push myself away from what I'm trying to grow closer to. Reality, reality and truth I just keep diving down, further and further into a bottomless swimming pool and blimey I have excellent form but I can't find it. I just can't find it. I don't even know what I'm looking for, sometimes.

And why.
Why do I always feel like I'm running out of time?

One Hundred and Thirty Nine

I shall never forget that summer night, the one that went on for seven days; the sound of the strangely suiting rain splattering on the window: the little sister pracing about the kitchen, the realization that she doesn't know suddenly dawning on me; of cinnamon; the loyal friend, flour-covered hands, uncertain of what to say, and worriedly glancing at her friend, still stunned and silent.

I remember we sat and ate sugar cookies and sat some more, and when it was done, we continued to sit. And later when she held me closer I mumbled the truth, the bitter reality that was stolen from me, and I felt every fiber in her being clench for me, begging me not to give up on words, begging me to see this - this of all things - is why I need to keep writing.

One Hundred and Thirty Eight

I wonder sometimes if I romanticize religion.

And then I think
there's so much more more to it
than people give it credit for.

There is something inherently gorgeous
about a convoluted mixture
of tradition, and culture, and faith.

One Hundred and Thirty Seven

You wrote me a letter.
And I held onto it. Held onto it like a child holding a bird, like it would fly away with the wind if I wasn't too careful, like all of this is just a dream, because that's never been too much of a stretch for me. I clung to it, and for a moment felt the world spin round my clasp on this piece of paper. This moment, this silly moment in a dirty downtown metro when I used to live in Montreal, I felt the world spin around me and a letter and a feeling I had inside. I didn't know what it was but I knew I was so lucky to have it, and so terrfied it was leaving, fading even as I closed more fingers across the seam, holding this memory in space.
No, I remember thinking to myself as the metro approached,
No, you can't lose anything you don't let go of.

One Hundred and Thirty Six

Oh.

oh.








oh no..

One Hundred and Thirty Five

I had a dream about you the other night.

We were walking, crossing streets or up a hill, I couldn't quite place us in the city. But you held my hand, so lightly but I felt it everywhere, and all at once, I felt so centered, so secure, and yet like such a child, so vulnerable, susceptible to everything, especially your eyes, your eyes always bold, always curious, always burrowing and always warm, just as warm as I always remember them. And at some point, around the fifth squeeze, by the seventh shoulder graze, the ninth shared smile, the twentieth comfortable silence, I stopped you, so hesitant in your steps, and I kissed everything away.
Every fear and second guess, every reconsideration, every catch and fall and 'wait's and 'but's and you smiled. And I kissed you again, slower, and then let you breathe, and brushed my lips against yours, and you smiled again. Smiled the softest, the silliest of flustered grins, and we chuckled, a collective exhale or relief and ease. I remember you closed your eyes so quietly and bit your lower lip carefully and we fought against time. And you, you squeezed my hand again, so shyly, and I raised my other to cup your cheek, covered it gently and stroked your jawline, and I reassured you, and your worried eyes, I touched your nose with my own, and I promised you,
"Tomorrow starts with me."

One Hundred and Thirty Four

Not too many people write me letters. I don't blame them, writing can be tedious and complicated, and they never quite seem to capture exactly how you feel, whether that's because you yourself don't even know how to begin or just that sometimes some things are just so large. inside. but not many people try to write me letters. You wrote me one, and it was so thoughtful of you to do that. So kind, so hard for you I know. I thank you, so so much, and I'm so so sorry
I'm so sorry that I gave it back to you.
Not a day has gone by that I don't regret that. Regardless of how we left things, I should never have given it back. I'm so sorry. I wish I still had it.
Some part of you.
But I suppose that's what I was trying to avoid, wasn't it.

One Hundred and Thirty Three

I hope I'm on your list of regrets.
I'm not gonna lie.

I hope you think about me at night sometimes.
I hope you think about me
and regret every moment
and feel so small
so ashamed
so sorry.

I hope I'm on your list of things you've regretted.
I hope I'm all the way up there.

One Hundred and Thirty Two

I stay up late, one night, incapable of sleeping. I write and write and forget commas and periods and spacing. I write until my words make no more sense, and then I keep writing. Chasing the next word as if drawing them out of a hat, the first thought, the very first word that comes to mind, I write it down.
It is rough and undetermined and childish and ultimately a young and concerned final product but it's what I need, I think, perhaps, I might just need something of mine, something to have control over, something to direct, to shape, to push, to move, to make my way.
Things never really do go my way.

One Hundred and Thirty One

There was this one night
wide awake around 4:45am
You lay down beside me
when we both knew you shouldn't have

but you touched my bangs
and made me promise you I'd never leave.

That was so cruel of you,
to make me promise you something like that,
when you knew I couldn't do it.
and I don't think I'll forgive you for it.

but in your defense
You clearly saw I would.

One Hundred and Thirty

I had a dream about you last night.
We sat side by side at a meeting, so formal and forced, dealing with serious issues like global warming and shortage of chocolate.
And you held my hand. And it was frowned upon, said to be counter-productive, distracting, unprofessional. And you shook your head with this silly smile, and said, "I can't not, I'm sorry."
And I squeezed your hand firmly in place
and for a moment in a distant dream
we were very very happy.

One Hundred and Twenty Nine

Hey.
I forgave you.
Two nights ago, in the shower,
between soap and conditioner
I found some time to forgive you.

I would've done the same, I think.
Sat there, intimidated.
Feeling guilty but not understanding why.

I don't blame you. I'm sorry I did.
Not everyone can be a knight.
and it was wrong of me to expect you to be.

One Hundred and Twenty Eight

Sometimes I think
maybe it's all a distraction, at the end of the day.
Maybe all of it is just here cos I need it to be.
I think, sometimes, I put it all here,
I made myself who I am,
just to go back.
Just to have a second chance, just to do it right this time. Because this time, this time I know what to do. Or rather I know what not to do. And I'm not alone. I'm not as alone. I'm less alone.
I don't think that's too crazy of an idea.
I think I think about it too much for there not to be a small scrap of truth to it.
I think I'm that kind of person. Someone who doesn't let go
completely.

One Hundred and Twenty Seven

I read today that Charlie Chaplin had like
a billion conquests

but when he was nineteen
he fell in love with a girl, proposed to her,
and she said no.
And he never really got over it.

When she died ten years later from the flu
it destroyed the rest of him.



I thought immediately of you.

One Hundred and Twenty Six

I've never liked anyone the way I like you.
And I don't mean that in a grand way.
I mean it in a different way.

I mean it like
you make me happy.
And not in a
"I want to cut out my heart and have you know everything about me. I want you to know each and every angry, jealous, hideous, dark, doubting thought that's ever passed through me and still love me, still want me as I am" kind of way.

But I mean I like you
and you make me happy.
And not in a naive way. Not in a way that I'm fooling myself, or making something to fend off loneliness. Not denying something. Or holding back. Or preserving.

Just that you make me happy.

Like maybe.. I don't have to be like that. I don't have to be so negative all the time. Maybe I don't actually have to be so stuck in the past, so mysterious, so secretive. Maybe I can just be happy today, and tomorrow, and learn from the past and move on.

And it - you - you make me wonder if life
and maybe the world in general
is actually a happy place.

Maybe life has been
a happy place
all along.


that's romantic in a different way isn't it.

One Hundred and Twenty Five

I have an immense amount of difficulty shaking the knawing certainty that my writing, my portfolio, my entire penning being is heading nowhere at a phenomenally fast pace.
What if I'm just not good enough.

or worse

What if I am
but this portfolio doesn't show it

One Hundred and Twenty Four

Sometimes
I feel like you're so close.

You just need to stretch a little bit more
just a little bit more. just stretch towards me.
Reach your hand
lay your head down
hold my gaze for a moment longer.

I feel like we're so close to being more
and everyone knows it.

Please try harder.
I don't have a right to ask you that.
But please? Please be brave. Please try us on.
see if we fit.

One Hundred and Twenty Three

I can listen to Cinematic Orchestra's 'To Build a Home' again.
I just listened to it today
for some reason.
And it doesn't remind me of anything.
It doesn't remind me of regret
of wasting time
of confusing feelings in parks
of emotional rooftops.
It doesn't remind me of any of that.

It reminds me of sushi
and my favourite places in Montreal.
Of winter. And christmas lights.

I can listen to it again.
I'm so. So happy.
So happy this song hasn't been ruined.

One Hundred and Twenty Two

I'm sorry it just...

It's just so much.
- in my stomach -
And I hate feeling so much.

And
it just...
it feels like it could've been the start of something.
I mean it feels like it's the beginning of a different year
doesn't it?
a year where things work out
a year where we'll be less alone.

It feels like we're still young, and we can still believe in romance
(in this wonderful, complex yet natural romance)
and we can be the lucky ones today.

It feels like
we could really do this
couldn't we?

come on couldn't we?
please?

And at the same time
it feels like an inevitable conclusion.
A sparkling red date in late May 2012
when none of it will last anyway.

I think I've just been trying to convince myself that
I don't even like you
all that much.

I hope it's working.
It probably isn't.

One Hundred and Twenty One

Although

I'll admit I found a very sick pleasure
in thinking;

You've only heard good about me.
But from what I know about you,
you should feel half as tall as you actually are.

One Hundred and Twenty

Do you still have my keychain?
I hope you do.

I hope you keep it forever.

One Hundred and Nineteen

I still can't believe you slept together.

I think I freaked out because you told me.
(or the way you did)

If it truly meant something,
you wouldn't have.

One Hundred and Eighteen

I wrote down, in my agenda, the day you get back to Montreal.
You were the first one.
In fact,
I added everyone else's arrival dates
so I'd stop staring at yours.

One Hundred and Seventeen

I have a theory
that perhaps all art

was really just a bunch of kids
doing whatever they could literally do
to move out.

One Hundred and Sixteen

I thought about you last night.
I haven't thought about you in a very long time.

I'm very sorry for the way I treated you.
I was growing into myself, spreading my wings.
I gave little thought to how people around me felt about it all.
I gave little thought to anybody, really.

I hope I've changed. I hope we meet again one day.
You wouldn't like me more, now.
I think the time for us has past anyway.
But that was my fault.

One Hundred and Fifteen

Yknow as terribly as this is going to sound

sometimes
not all the time
but sometimes

I wish I was my own friend.
I wish I could have me as a friend.

I would know how to calm me down.
I'd know what to say.

One Hundred and Fourteen

Dear Stranger,

You weren't on the 128 bus last night.
I checked.
I always do.
I'm always looking for you.
Why, I don't know. We've never exchanged words, or smiles, pleasantries. But I noticed you weren't there, and I felt so much more
lost.
I haven't seen you in a while, either.
I've been busy with summer courses, so many hours have been erratic. Like that week in February, remember? We'd see one another at eight in the morning, or ride the midnight bus together.
I hope things are going well. I miss you, in some detached, grasping way. I hope that's okay. And I hope I see you again soon.

Regards
Me

One Hundred and Thirteen

letting go of Harry Potter
it feels like a handful of straw. And I can't pick and choose.
I can't let him go
without letting the rest.
It's all interlinked, see.
Everything goes with him.
It's all the same.
Everything looks the same.
Feels the same.
Like the red and blue wire are both encased in green.

Green means go go go
Let go Go faster Faster Grow up

No.
I will never be ready to do this.
I will never want to.

One Hundred and Twelve

I wonder how many people dream about me.

One Hundred and Eleven

My dear friends.

I want life to never take you.
I want you to keep your insight, to keep your naive notions of what trust is, of what friendship is. Loyalty and honour. I want you to never lose sight of morality, I want you to never give in, to never settle. I want to shield you from the world and all bad expereinces, and preserve your goodness and young heart.
You are so kind. You are so young.
And I'm sorry, I know this is coming off as condescending, as high and mighty, as obnoxiously more learned and educated and experienced, and there's no right for me to say it at all. But I just want to put it there. I don't ever want life to hurt you. You are still so trusting, still so open. And when you learn of life's unfairness, of the stain on the other side of the couch cushion, when you realize that everything you once believed in is nothing but a cloud in a dark blue sky, your world will shatter. And I don't want it to.
I love you, just as you are.
And I want you to never learn of this world we've built. Of these disappointments we have in store for you.

One Hundred and Ten

Sometimes I really wish
my parents were okay with it
so I could ask them for romantic advice.

Not that love is the most important aspect of life, but seeing as I can't talk to them about writing, because they don't understand it, because they've never experienced the creative process, because they don't see words the way I do, read, watch, hear words the way I do, I think love should be something they can help with. Something they've done. and done well. clearly.
Isn't that what parents can do?

They're older, wiser, they've more experience, and they can know what to say, how to answer the questions I've still got, too embarassed to ask friends or peer groups.

'When do you know you're in love?'
'How am I supposed to know when she's different from the rest?'
'How do I know I'll never cheat, never have wandering eyes?'

or maybe simpler.

'It's our two year anniversary today; how does this shirt look?'
'Will you teach me how to lead a girl in slow dancing?'

or maybe not even a question at all.

'I had my first kiss tonight.'
'I think I'm falling in love'
'I've never felt this way before'

I feel like I need to speed up their coping process
so we don't miss out on sharing these moments together.

One Hundred and Nine

I'm tired of always having to be 100% for people.

I'm not the best at mental math anymore
but I don't think that leaves much for me.

One Hundred and Eight

In which I reduce people to notions
and lament 'could'ves' and 'almosts'.

When I think of 1, I think of juice.
Of immediate sweetness and boxes, and fitting into ideas, of portable feelings, and running low. And I think of concentrated attention, and real friends.

When I think of 2, I think of clowns.
I think of unfortunate parties, and jokes being on you. I think of awkward laughter and crying children. Of hiding behind legs and losing sleep. Of rocks. Of pearls.

When I think of 3, I think of glasses.
And things people hide behind. I think of seeing things that've always been there. I think about Harry Potter, and notes, and math class. I think about braces, and being shy, of unreturned smiles, of modesty and hallway glances.
I think of love. Because I still do, and always will.
I think about 'sorry' not being enough.

When I think of 4, I think of guitars.
Of rockstars and jocks, of Clapton and strings. I think of hipsters and short hair, of never caring what people think of you, and being alone with other people.

When I think of 5, I think of coffee.
I think of waking up to truths, of coffee dates, and Ani DiFranco. I think of groups of friends, and falling into place, of forcing feelings, and losing touch.

When I think of 6, I think of bowties.
Of being presentable, of trying too hard. I think of nervous throats and tight collars, never being able to be yoursel, of dressing words up and long distant disappointments.

When I think of 7, I think of bad friends.

When I think of 8, I think of Shakespeare.
I think of words, and a lack of them. Of dramatic, fast emotions. I think of awkward, poorly-delivered soliloquies. I think of premature deaths and easy clean-ups.

When I think of 9, I think of Axe.
I think of dressing up, and raving at clubs, of open shirts and hot sunglasses. I think of sunscreen, and blocking out what you don't want to hear. I think of text messages in the morning, and slow dancing.

When I think of 10, I think of books.
I think of character growth, I think of sitting under trees. I thin kof reading between lines, and exciting chapters, and epilogues. I think of Lord of the Rings, I think of white trees, I think of epilogues.
I think of love. Because I do.

When I think of 11, I think of fanfiction.
I think of replacements for the real thing, and internet connections. I think of conflicting opinions, I think of comments and sly smiles. I think of paths you don't need to travel down to know are bad ideas.

When I think of 12, I think of Beatles.
I think of Across the Universe, and strawberry picnics. I thin kof hometowns, and two very good friends. I think of holding hands, and not holding hands. I think of change.

When I think of 13, I think of anthropology.
I think of questions upon questions upon questions and then confusion. I think of saxophones and vodka. I think of grass and cue balls and questions and questions. And more confusion.

When I think of 14, I think of sundresses.
I think of fast dancing, and one-night affairs. I think of hot legs and lusting, and summer. I think of hospitals and winter. I think of wasting time.

When I think of 15, I think of fire.
I think of being burnt and not being able to keep up. I think of fast words and quickened dancing. I think of dodging kisses and spinning ballerinas.

When I think of 16, I think of vodka.
And beer and tequila and rum and wine. I think of parties and unashamed nudity. I think of great laughter and great theatre, I think of comfortable beds. I think of respecting and respectable friends.

When I think of 17, I think of darkness.
I think of loneliness and being misunderstood. I think of anime and wilting roses. I think of overdue hugs and melted chocolate. I think of unobtainable kisses.

When I think of 18, I think of opportunity.
I think of immediate smiles and easy conversation. I think of fierce loyalty and fast sparks. I think of commonalities and shared loneliness. I think of friendships staying they way they are; should be.

When I think of 19, I think of gender.
And bending it. I think of confusing pronouns and patient smiles. I think of exchanging smiles, of slight flirting, of hesitancy. I think of emails and statuses.

When I think of 20, I think of hair.
I think of short hair, and having things cut too early. I think of coffee being replaced with tea. I think of awkward first smiles, of facebook notes, of the promise of tomorrow.

When I think of 21, I think of arias.
I think of music and musicals, of onstage prescence, I think of distinct giggles and beautiful, burrowing, brown eyes. I think of hesitant goodbyes and feeling silly and unforced smiles.

One Hundred and Seven

When did family become competitive?

One Hundred and Six

Every now and then

I am so terrified
so ice cold with horror and dread
that I might actually be the last Lau.

That I might actually
watch my parents
both my brothers
die.

One Hundred and Five

Well yes.
I know it's dramatic
and I shouldn't

but somtimes I do think
I'm probably not really supposed to have anyone.

Maybe it's important that I don't.
for some
unforseeable reason.

One Hundred and Four

Dyou want to hear a secret?
About us?


I broke your heart
broke your trust
because I knew somewhere down the road
you'd eventually break mine.

And I thought you'd take losing me better
than I'd take losing you.

Maybe it was still selfish in a roundabout way.
I still regret it. Not all the time. But sometimes.

One Hundred and Three

Sometimes I feel like

I've learnt more about parenting
and family

from everything that should've just been entertainment.

One Hundred and Two

I'm getting rid of you tonight.

A new friend and I decided you're no good to me. A poison. This uh
this very bad, bad energy in my life that I don't need.
I really don't.
And so tonight, I'm getting rid of you.
Every object in my room, every text in my phone, every word written about you.
Everything.
I'm scrapping it all.
And it isn't easy. I want you to know that. That it isn't easy. Because I tend to be very genuine, very sentimental, very creative and honest, when I...I was great, when I was with you. I really was. But things change. People change. And I can't keep doing this to myself. Beating myself up over this. I can't keep blaming myself for being weak.

You happened. Things happen. We move on.

I'm moving on. Not because I need to, but because I want to.
I'm getting rid of you tonight.

One Hundred and One

My Dear Elder,

I have known you for my entire life, and we have most probably despised one another for a little under twenty years of it. When I was a child, I distinctly remember jumping into all arms but yours, grudgingly accepting the reality of our familial connection, offering you a polite greeting with nothing in return. But that was then, and though yes, as you continue to remind me, I am still young, I have grown. I have grown and well
I wanted to say I'm Sorry.

I'm sorry that things haven't worked out. I've resented you, for so long, hated your table manners, cringed at the mention of your name, ignored your rants entirely sometimes.
But I want to apologize, on behalf of life,
on behalf of the way things are.
I'm very sorry.
This isn't what you wanted. This life shouldn't be the way it is. You never wanted to be alone. You never wanted this. But it's what you have. And I'm very sorry.

I just...I don't know.
I don't think anyone deserves loneliness.

I am sorry your house is not a home
and your bed is not half as warm as it could be.

One Hundred

Thank you for asking.

My ego is my biggest flaw.
My romanticism my favourite asset.

But chivalry will be my downfall.
and I don't know why.

Do I not believe I deserve happiness too?
I wish I didn't take half the things life deals me, throws my way.
When do I start taking, and getting, and having, what I want?

Ninety Seventh

I hope I never reach the day when writing ceases to speak to me.
when not one frame in a film takes my breath away.
when the dialogue between two dynamic characters bore me to death.
when a storyline is predictable and takes that exact path I hope it doesn't.
when a familiar theme song doesn't make me smile.
when I fall out of love with Emily Fitch.

I hope it never comes.

Ninety Sixth

Oh friend.

It's not that I don't respect you.
But that just crossed the line.

My friend?
Harry Potter is better than anything you have ever done
and ever will do.

Ninety Fifth

Hey.

Do you remember that night
when I first walked you home?

-those very precious minutes
before I realized something that's always been there-

they were the happiest I've been in a very very long time.

Ninety Fourth

I genuinely do believe, though:

The only people who don't have a crush on you
are the ones who haven't met you yet.

and even then
they have dreamt of you.

You're the kind of girl people dream about.

Ninety Third

Hold onto that.
It might be worth something someday.
And you can sell it, or something.
Take some scissors and slice up the words, choose your favourite sentence out of the entire thing and keep it under your pillow, let someone else have the rest of it, I don't mind, I don't think I do, I don't think I will.
(all important things are said in person)
(all my love I give you in person)
I think if one of my letters flew with you in a plane, made you feel so much less alone, rode with you in a car, fell asleep in your hands as your gaze travelled upwards towards the moving skies, held you close on a rainy rainy day that couldn't get worse and then it did, if it spent even half the amount of the time with you it took me to write it, that was all that mattered.
I give you these words for safekeeping, because I have more from where they came from anyway, because I can't hold it all in, everything I have to share.
Everything I want you to have, for now, for tomorrow, for as long as you want to have it for, it is yours. Keep them warm and my words will shelter you in a hug and hold I designed specifically for you.

Ninety Second

actually...

If I'm ever really jealous?
You'll never know.
When I'm honestly jealous...I don't even have the words, the energy to show you, tell you. I haven't the self-respect, the moment of peace to gather thoughts together. Everything sort of crumbles into a very dark corner. And telling you I'm jealous, or talking to you entirely, is out of the question.

Sometimes I even get a sudden rush of happiness that glows in your direction, and shout a remarkably loud "Congratulations."

Ninety First

Sometimes - not all the time - but sometimes,
some days,

there are very real moments when I realize
my parents might not be at my wedding.

And that's harder to take than they'll ever understand.

Ninetieth

No.
You and me?
We'll never really happen.
I have too much respect for you.
I could never do that to you.
Do me to you.

Does that make sense?

Eighty Ninth

my favourite thing about this summer class
is that no one knows who I am.

And I don't have to be anybody.
and I don't have to be a playwright
and I don't have to know an abnormal amount about queer theory
and I don't have to be this person
this person.
I can just be nobody.

or
I can just sit
and just be.

Eighty Eighth

Hey.

Please stop acting like I'm untoucheable.
Please stop treating me like
like I'm unattainable.

As though my thoughts are more important than yours
my schedule more interesting
my life more meaningful.

It isn't.
And I need someone

I need to believe
that someone can see through all of this

past the fireworks.

Eighty Eigth

I had a dream about you, the other night.
I had come back from New York, a sensation, busy as always, richer than expected, for a weekend during your dead week, and my off-season. We went to a party, and you were just as beautiful as I always remember you. And as the night drew to a close, we took a stroll, a quiet walk by the Old Port, knocking wrists as we always do, and I watched you calmly, my heart aching to feel yours.
And just as the sun was rising, I stopped you. I held your cold hands in mine, laced our fingers loose and close, and I pressed my forehead to yours, inhaled your scent at long last. And I told you, "New York is amazing. But sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes, I ask myself, 'When will it be enough? How much longer will you stay here, before you go home? Go back to her. This isn't the person you need to be. This life isn't what you want, if she isn't in it. Go home. Go back to her.'"

It was a lot.
I didn't know I liked you this much.
Maybe it's just a dream.

But I miss you
so much
when you aren't around.

Eighty Seventh

Dear Children,

No, actually.
No. I will defend her.

Listen, I know her hair is bleached blonde to the point of complete ruination, I can see her burnt ends from overuseage of a straightener. I can see her brunette roots growing back in, and I see that now it's just turned white, her hair is almost like frothy snow. And I see her puckered hot pink lips, and her fake tan. I see her fake tan, and if I didn't, I'd hear it, because everyone loves to call her to Oompa Loompa, because no one thinks she can hear it, and no one thinks laughter carries in these halls.

I see it, all of it,
and I would have seen it all if you hadn't pointed it out to me, too.
but no.
No. I see her.
I hear her.
She's intelligent. And caring. And sensible.
But what, that's not okay? Because you're not okay with it?
So she's been reduced to a frosty Oompa Loompa
because you've let her believe it.
Well stop it.

She doesn't need to change, for you.

Eighty Sixth

-Don't give up.
-'Don't give up'? I have to.
-But..
-I have to, Mother. Because there's nothing wrong with me.
-How can you say that?
-...
-How can you say that, when you could one day want to marry a girl?

Eighty Fifth

That was, in restrospect, very selfish of me.

This has nothing to do with you.
That was, in restrospect, very rude of me.

I'm sorry.

You can be anything.
You are who you are.
What you are is a beautiful person.

Eighty Fourth

One day, dear (I assure you, I do)
One day, dear, we will look back
and I will tell you with the most amused expression on my face
how hard I tried to not fall for you.

Eighty Third

Maybe modern day superheroes are the ones who..
have the most patience.

Even when the situation, when the individual, when the event doesn't deserve it.
A superhero can set aside their frustration, and judgement.
And deal with it at hand.

Even if they think it's hard.

Eighty Second

I don't know. I've just...never done it.
you know?

Sometimes I see people, I catch them looking at their significant other, their loved one, cherished one, better half. And there's this smile, this small, touched smile just playing casually on their lips, and they look so at ease, like the weight of their lives had been lifted off their shoulders for a moment. And they look so lucky, to just be in this same room, to be living this life with this one other person, so thankful for the moments they have.

And it's not like I haven't felt that.

But to look.
To look, and to know that you don't have to feel ashamed of it, because it's reciprocated, because this, all of this in your chest, and lungs, and eyes and heart, all of this doesn't need to stay quiet. Nothing needs to be stifled, and we don't have to stay just friends. I am allowed to feel this for you, the idea of us is not silly and impossible. And I am allowed to keep looking.

I've never been allowed.

It must be nice.
Is it?
It looks ..

nice.

Eighty First

Hey everyone:
When you go to university, don't live with your parents.
And if you do, don't come out to them.
Just don't.

Please don't.
Please?
Please.

Eightieth

If I could unlearn anything
anything in the world

I'd start with this number.

Seventy Ninth

Dear You,

This is a public letter.
I hope that doesn't bother you.
You'll probably never read it anyway.

Thank you for everything.
I know I said it, long ago, so very long ago that it's slipped your mind, or maybe you've kept the paper. Maybe you've kept it, I don't know. Maybe it's stolen away, somewhere in your room, gathering dust, or stored safely in a drawer, and you'll keep it forever. Regardless of where it is, it retains its truth, and I continue to thank you. For everything.
I meant it then.
I mean it now.

Always.

Seventy Eighth

"She's one of those girls," he said, "She's either a very protective, proud virgin, or someone who defiantly, decidedly chose to lose her virginity. Woke up one morning and said, 'Yeah. Today. You.'"

I laughed. I don't know why. I found it hilarious, and dead-on for her. It wasn't meant as an insult, and I didn't interpret it as one, either. Just spot on. And admirable, in a way. And attractive too, in another. But I did laugh. I did.
I don't know why.
I don't know what that says about me.

Seventy Seventh

sometimes

I miss you
even when I'm with you.
even when I hold you.



Is that love?

Seventy Sixth

Sometimes my hair knows before I do.

DON'T TOUCH MY BANGS.


wait. that was...nice.

Oh.
You're different.