When my roommate is out of town, I find myself in a weird state.
A state called Poverty of Words, and instead of being alarmed, I feel at home
I am used to conversing, saying words out loud, but sometimes I cannot grasp the words long enough to reproduce them.
Home is here, now, but yesterday it was somewhere else. Somewhere not here, not home.
I don't drink coffee, but I can still fall in love in a coffee shop,
even if it is just the hot chocolate making me feel that way.
Never let me go, Flo, last week I confessed a confession that was hard for me to write
But you know what?
No, you don't know, how could you, even when you say you know, you don't really,
But you know what, that confession was cleansing, as they say, and I work so hard at not being dirty.
Right now I sleep in squalor, but not really, but really, it feels that way. And when you come over, I wonder if you wait until I slip into the bathroom and the door is shut so that you can sneak a peek under my couch to count the dust bunnies living in the dark and dingy corner. They are not my pets, I do not feed them, but they are thinking about ambushing me, my ankles, my home that is not mine.
And pristine is not attainable. And polished is laughable. This city is old and I wonder how long I will be living here before I am old, too. Before my eggs are old. Before my new is old.
And I am alone, but of course I am not, because I have my dog but you know she is going to die soon, so I snap photos of her and I tell her repeatedly I love her. So silly, but I do it. Like her final thoughts before the light is clouded over will be, “She loves me”.
And I do not know what my final thoughts will be and why are we here anyway and do you think about death like I think about death and then life rears its head. Never let me go, Flo, and don't let me fall into the well.