last night.

THINGS I KNEW BEFORE BUT SUDDENLY FORGOT.
we are happy people.
we can dance whenever we want to.
i am writing a story.
it will be about my life.
my life will be about the story, too, somehow, it will fill in all the creaks and cracks, this is the way it should be, as always. shut the door! i'll say. this is serious business. to the ones that are capable of touching bones and the things and parts inside of me despite the blood, and guts and ugliness, i will let in and hold close and play songs for. you will be there, maybe, but i never make promises. that is a lie. i make promises, and lies too. in bed at night i started my story. in bed every night i start my story, when i wake up it is gone. when i wake up i'm in a cold sweat with a hot neck and face, empty handed.

THINGS I FORGOT BUT AM TRYING TO GRASP BACK.
you are a good writer. words come with ease.
they drip out, blood like. who said i was looking to kiss you?
i was only trying to whistle.
i am a fever and an open novel, dog-eared and highlighted up, like something out of an old bright eyes song the fever and a necklace, he sang it to me in one of the rooms. in one of the rooms that will be in the story.

THINGS I AM LEARNING AS I CLIMB INTO THE WALLS.
maybe the beginning is not the beginning and the ends are not the ends, everything is the middle, i wrote this somewhere, what middle?! where? no concept, no time, i am in need of a wooden floor and dead silence, dead sound. the story will take place in the city. the story will take place in the woods. we will find ourselves somewhere, hopefully, somewhere shady and cool, with people that love us and cold water with four ice cubes and songs.