As if the weather cooling and the trees losing their leaves is a solution for angst and stupidity and feeling like I'm 15 and a boy has just broken up with me via AOL instant messenger. As if scarves and knitted stockings will suddenly make me have magic.
It's a nice thought.
I'll be better in September. Settled. Collected. I just have to wait it out. Wait out the heat of July and the mania of August. Windows and eyes and doors and hearts will open.
But isn't that the problem? My heart is so open that it hurts. I spend my days wasting time and my nights faking everything. Every song has new meaning in this light. And I'm not allowed to sing at school; how fucked up is that?
I alternately feel like my bed is too big and too small. I want you close but not that close. And all of this because I wished on the biggest dandelion I'd ever found. Where did those airy seeds land? What an awful wish. A wasted wish. I need to get wasted.
Pretty soon the sun will rise again and I'll get up, take a pill, start to clean the kitchen but get distracted. You'll be here but not here and I'll reach out and there will be nothing. Only for 15 more days.
I wish I were a cartographer.
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