the habit of being

Maybe it’s got something to do with Valentine’s Day, or the end of the Second Year. Or the abstract(ed) woman without clothes and her shadow lover. It could be related to flowers or the lack thereof. It could be all about my bruised foot and painted hands. Perhaps the secret lies in this box of chocolates, or that little heart I scribbled out in Spanish class. Rejected offers of cohabitation. Unused chances to say something, anything. Secrets on those lips I kissed or those I never dared to. The pink scarf. I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know.

There was a musical moment and I was filled, though within a mold of those who know the notes but not the magic, and those who don’t even know the notes. It all, yes ALL, goes back to floating. There is only one form of happiness. Someone said she felt stupid just by being in the same room with me, and I wonder how, when I do nothing but peek-a-boo along my hours, serving my debt, rotting my central nightlight. Smashing it to the pavement, cutting my hands on the shards. And again and again I say ‘Oh, it’s just paint.’ Right now I want a pretty symbol, a great scene, and I have none. Yes, I understand all too well what it’s like to splatter out a sentence for face value only. Raping the English language.

Who will plant me my fig tree? Oh please hurry. I’m sitting here choking on water.

. . .

One day I’ll tell you to your face that you’re without a doubt the best thing that will ever happen to me, whether or not you take any form other than a mist that floats around me. That painting, it’s yours. It’s ours. I’m giddy.

It’s funny funny how things go. An hour ago I was crying and now I feel on top of it all.

Brick.