"We'll leave a noooose on the aaattorney's desk..."

[I needed you more on some days than others. But you weren't there either way. And I survived.]

Months and months. "Rolling through the days with the gratitude of steam." Where am I now? Why do I stop writing? I need something new from myself. I need a truth, as of yet unthought of. And I need a story, other than my own -- at least until I can step back in as author once more, rather than playing within and throughout the sweet commitments I've given in to surround me. The emerald-stitch blueroyal, covers my eyes like a dark & weighted sheet, so that I cannot see past my sight. And for now, that's all right.

I went looking for a poet tonight. (Why is it important to record these minutes?!) I didn't know her name, but I knew what her sage voice sounds like -- her experience infiltrating its intoning rhythm. Hmmm... anyway. I'll find her soon, but tonight, with this momentary loss of inspired, I took joy in settling for hot tea in a tall glass, reading a page and a half of my slow, faux-intimate novel. And for a bit, considered gravely a particularly thirsted-for interaction, which was half-flirt, half-fret/fearful, as it left me glad but increasingly anti-climactic -- as though fading into ridiculous clumsiness, accompanying the unfamiliar scorch of my feeling shy.

My ears listened their fill of Margot and the Nucleur So & So's; my feet played cold together, swept beneath the blanket. I missed my sworn enemy, because he used to be my great love. Then, he had warmed my feet with the fleeting-est of lovers' looks. I bit my tongue to beat back the sensation the only way I knew how, because the only thing more distracting than pain is worse pain. Or at least, that which is more immediately painful, and thus inescapably tangible, as memoried musings never are. Only then might self-medication be an option worth faithful exploration, for some suddenly lonely night.

[Besides which, missing him pissed me off. That helped, too.]

-L (6/3/13)

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