thoughts of 11/1 continued
“I’m getting lost in your curls.”
Sometimes when I see pretty girls riding bikes, I never want to eat again. I could see it in the way you slowed your pace. I knew it. I knew you knew that face and those hands that gripped the handles of the bicycle, that touch the keys of a piano—the hands that once touched yours. I knew it, and I wondered if you wanted to run away from me, but you didn’t. You just slowed your pace, and I began to walk faster, as I do when I feel uncomfortable. We split for a moment, and I wanted to permanently split from you, maybe even the world.
prettygirlsonbikespartofyourlovelifepret
tygirlsonbikesprettygirlsonbikessoundso
fanendlessnightphonecallsphonecallspre
ttygirlonbikeyoulovedherthatprettygirlo
nthebike.
And you, you said you loved my writing. And she, she did the same. It made my day. But I don’t love it. I feel content though, like I am not wasting my life. Do I live solely to make A’s? Probably. Yet somehow my life is starting to resemble songs. Like I said, you make me want to write poetry all night long, but it’s sad, like listening to Elliott Smith.
I could write an album. I could make my life sound or feel or look like art. Things are happening. Love is happening. Life is happening. My life is becoming art. Songs are starting to make sense again but more and more. It’s not that cheesy stuff though. It’s like the painful love of life. Although it hurts, I kind of like it. It makes me feel real. Then again, in all honesty, I’d rather not feel. I long to go back to the summer when I did not feel. I was withering away. I want it back. But life is happening. I want to wither away while life happens too. I want to be connected while disconnected. I don’t know how that works. Have I really become so heartless?
