50 Going On 100

“I read once that the ancient Egyptians had fifty words for sand & the Eskimos had a hundred words for snow. I wish I had a thousand words for love, but all that comes to mind is the way you move against me while you sleep & there are no words for that.”



Comfortable silences are overrated.

There. I said it. Or a dude in a song did; either way:

I don’t like to indulge them.

Not when there are a million stars and twice as many constellations, not when the air can smell like the ocean even though there isn’t one for miles and miles, not when we could be laughing or–

“It feels like forever,” she says, eyes closed and hands clutching at the grass. “I feel like we’ve been coming up here for forever,” and it’s strange because she’s never been one for over-exaggerations but maybe she’s not here. “Hasn’t it been forever?” eyes open now but looking over a place that isn’t here, but someplace where that could be true. I shrug.
“It feels like forever,” she repeats, just because she can.
“Maybe,” I acquiesce. A beat. Then, “I’m bored.
“Wanna race to the river?” she asks, and then she’s off as I pull up, slower than I would have liked, behind her, our laughs ringing out as we shoot down the hill.

We have been coming up here forever. The ridiculous ribbons she insists on wearing for no other reason than the alliteration stream out behind her, much like my hair–displaced in a way I haven’t been for well over a couple years now. In the days of sketchy motels and blurry towns, the realization would have sent a jolt of panic up my spine but today (here), the familiarity slides smoothly into a hollow that had gone unannounced until it was gently removed.

I speed up just a little and don’t bother to refrain from gloating.

“Well of course you won, your legs alone could be 6 feet tall, you freak,” she gasps out between breaths once she’s finally at the bank and I shove at her until we both collapse, a heap of fluttery dresses and skirts and slightly torn t-shirts.

What feels like hours, but could quite possibly be mere minutes, pass as we catch our breaths, the sky a washed-out blue that’s so boring but so immensely reassuring that I forgive it for it.

“The Eskimos didn’t have a hundred words for snow, by the way,” I blurt out for some reason.
She’s understandably confused. “What?”
“There’s that quote you like, right? With the Eskimos and Egyptians? It’s a myth, I looked it up.” I don’t know who I’m punishing. If I am.
She’s squinting, “Oh, I know. It’s just nice to think it anyway, is all.”
“Hmm.” I start humming a song she starts tapping out on her knee.


“I read once that the ancient Egyptians had fifty words for sand & the Eskimos had a hundred words for snow. I wish I had a thousand words for love, but all that comes to mind is the way you move against me while you sleep & there are no words for that.”

Yours Truly,

P.S  What’s this??????? not??? a??? poem????
It’s barely like 500 words but hey, it counts!

A Light That Never Comes


In the muted bluish light emanating from the laptop in the dark, they look almost graceful. Stubby, as always, but soft, tangled in the dark brown strands of hair. You turn them slightly, this way and that, examining the light reflecting off the nails and the hair; and the music swells, the singer crooning of scars and the desire to be sculpted. And you smile–lying  all alone in the dark room, turned on your side—your hands suspended in front of you,  suddenly seeing them in this new light; as something more than simply dependable. Almost graceful.

Small fingers; large palms. Not very elegant at the best of times, but in the laptop’s light that night, as your eyes roved over the ceiling, the walls, the books until finally settling on your own hands, they’re suddenly of much, much greater importance. You feel this surge of something. ‘Narcissism’ your mind whispers, sniggering—but it’s not that. These hands are not yours. You can’t describe it. The way your hands stood frozen, fingers slightly bent, hair woven through them, a few tendrils gently falling down. There was just something about that moment; something in the music at that very second, and the reflection of light–and the hands.

Gentle and almost beautiful, stunned into a hushed stillness.

Not your hands.

Not yours. You don’t recognize them, but something in you lights up, some long-dead  ember spitting out an unexpected blazing spark. Because you’re thinking it: they’re graceful, in that light in that moment they’re graceful (despite that solitary tiny hair on your knuckle; despite being the slightest bit rough; despite the peeling skin)

You clasp them together, the back of your hands cool and smooth.

Yours Truly,


Little Things

Because there is something about me. Something that forces you to take a breath just so you can hold it for a while; something in the scrunching of faces and the wringing of hands and the anxious pacing. Little things—impersonal. Something weird and unusual and vague. Something that makes you smile and laugh, come alive just a little bit. Something that makes you frown and sigh, then pull away because you’ve had enough.

Because there is something about her. In the way she dances as she walks down the street, in the sudden whipping of head and the small smile. Something that makes you look again, one last time, just to ensure you commit it all to memory; something to look back on when you’re 70 and marvel at. Something in the lowering of lashes and the confident statements. Something you try to hold on to, but forget a few minutes later.

Because there’s something about him. Something in the widening of eyes and the quiet, challenging tone; in the tapping of feet and the grasping of hands. Something about the firm convictions and the distracted ramblings. Something that overwhelms you with the need to hold it close–closer–as close as you can.

Because there’s something about you. Something in the eyes and the wind through your hair; in the flicking of wrists and the lines of your palm. Something in the wrinkles: the evidence of past laughter and the years you’ve witnessed.

And there’s something about her. And him—and that one too. Something in the mundane, in the everyday. Something strangers notice and don’t at the same time.

There’s something about it all–something beautiful and pretty and idealistic.

Something tragic about how it’s forgotten all too soon—or worse, never noticed to begin with.

Yours Truly,


P.S  Today was just so incredibly wonderful. I actually painted. It’s been so long and its the first time in so many weeks that I’ve felt like myself. I thought I should perhaps write a different post about it, but then nah. Anyway here’s what I spent the afternoon doing:

So I did sort of play it fast and loose with the paint. I’m afraid I’ve absolutely ruined it. Oh well. It was fun, though. It was a nice day.

Not Quite Right

I have this thing where I draw almost pretty faces. It isn’t intentional. You know how sometimes when you paint or draw or sketch, everything is great up until a point, and then you can feel yourself going off-track? You know that you’re supposed to stop right then and take a breath and look at it. Stop and look and distance yourself so you find it again. Well I can’t do that. I know I’ll regret it later and that this’ll just render all my previous hard work irrelevant, but I can’t stop. It’s this almost destructive urge to spoil that which has been coming along so good (if I do say so myself) up until then. And when others look at it they know something is wrong but they can’t really figure out what.

But some of them I actually like even if they seem unappealing to everyone else:

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Yours Truly,