I think that’s the longest I’ve gone between posts since I started writing here.
That’s got to change.

This is the time I need to write my heart out the most but every time I inhale it hurts and when I exhale I’m exhaling blood.

It’s hard to force myself to put these feelings down.
I don’t want to feel like I’m burdening my readers.

This is real. This real. This is real.

We are not ghosts. We are real.

We will do this thing. We will do these things.

We will destroy myths.

We will break all you know apart and make it new.

This is how we are.

This is who we are.

This is what we are.

Yellow and orange.

“We are gold”

I thought I felt your shape but I was wrong. Really all I felt was falsely strong. I held on tight and closed my eyes; it was dumb, I had no sense of your size. But last night in the kitchen my grip was loose. My eyes were open. I felt your shape and heard your breathing. I felt the rise and fall of your chest.

I felt your falls, your winter snows, your gusty blow, your lava flow. I felt it all.

With limp arms I can feel most of you.

I hung around your neck independantly and my feeling of loss was overwhelmed by this new depth I don’t think I ever felt.

But I don’t know…

My nights are still cold, and I vividly remember my arm gripping around a warm fleshy waist.

–The Microphones

I have been showering alone for a while now lately, and let me tell you it’s taken all the fun out of the experience. Now, before you start snickering like a batch of prepubescents, I should have you know I’m speaking entirely about the intimacy that comes when washing and caring for another; the careful scrubbing and chaste hand placements.

“Tilt your head back; it’s time to rinse.”
“Like that?”
“Perfect.”

I feel loved and taken care of.
I don’t feel naked and exposed.