"You're beautiful, and smart, and worth every moment of the day." -Anon

She stared up at the canvas and smiled its blues and oranges. Across the street from the cafe, she stayed vaguely aware of a presence she would soon need to acknowledge. With all of her will, though, she tried to keep present with this moment: its view of a desert painting; its scent of roasted caffeine; its impression of waiting like a solid thing to cling to, with her fingertips or toes; the signature of an artist to symbolize it all. "Tyler Burke," a name she did not know until then, but one her semi-present self still hoped to remember.

And back across the street. Yes, eventually her mind shifts back there. To him, waiting across the street. Her yawns came more frequently when she thought of him there--were they reading the future? Dreading it, or finding more comfort than she was comfortable with? Or better yet: fuck him/it/everything--maybe she was just crashing. Jesus knew she had every excuse to be tired after twelve straight days of fine-tuned, screaming stress levels. And every right to let him wait.

She remembered the confusion especially well. Again, finding it necessary to stop the thoughts comingcomingcoming--to listen and pay mind to her body, in a way she'd once taken for granted. [She wanted to see stars not but for the darkness, but brightly lit of their very own accord. No comparisons; no relief--just boundless gratitude to be there to see.] Ready or not, she told herself futilely consoling--here we go, dearest.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/14/09)

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