Passing time.

I keep telling myself that things will be better once it's fall again.

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.

Already gone.

I think I now know what Micah meant when he said what he said about people seeing each other at their most vulnerable.

All in all out all around all. Letters and paints and the ideas that haunt me until I finally drag a pen, far too heavy, to the page and get it out. Cough it out. Write like nobody's business.

Great hacking coughs of words. Acidic words as though they came straight from my stomach brought up by a bottle of wine too quickly swallowed. News and roads and traffic and jobs and sun and summer. Birds and maps. Laughing and staring into eyes, into water, into the future. Blowing smoke.

All the while, the curtains are closed. I'm not letting show anything that might hurt me later but that makes me hurt now. Reckless, reckless, reckless.

I'm just one girl in this city.

The only living boy in New York.

And the two words that come unsolicited, unwanted, unwelcomed but always there:

Apple Lung.

Moonshadow.

Traveling on lonely highway road with a

fresh pack of smokes

and

a heart full of hopes.

I am novelty and I am young.

Kissin' my girl and stompin' my boots.

Smilin' at nothing in particular.

Flowers in my hair,

music everywhere.

This is my last summer of underage drinking.

Nothing Set in Stone

All my worldly possessions are stacked up

and packed up

and utterly inaccessible.

I'm sore and I'm bleeding.

I'm tired of all of the needing.

Will I sleep in a bed tomorrow night?

Where?

With whom?

Where will I be the night after that?

I'm reflective / introspective / and not at all selective.

Animal collective.

Court and spark,

I feel like we've never been in the dark.

Caves and graves and basements.

I do incredibly foolish things under the influence.

Am I trying to prove to myself that I'm fun and out-going?

Or am I trying to prove it to you?

Either way, the next morning I look and feel like an asshole.

How anyone can stand to spend more than 5 minutes at a time with me will always amaze me.

I'm too honest and the only time I said, "no." I didn't mean it.

Or did I?

How will I ever know?

Will I ever get the chance to say, "I was just kidding. Yes. Fuck it. Let's do this."

Or will I move on and find new things to ignore?

New songs which will remind me of how silly I was?

Every year I think, "This is the best year of my life!"

And then I get older and can't believe just how much better it is.

I hope that never ends.

I already accept that this isn't it but...

some small part,

whether it's my brain or my heart,

says I'll fall in love when the leaves change their color and the trees shed their skin.

I'll be happy and learning and wear coats and scarves.

I'll finally be able to drink in bars.

In a house with a fireplace,

my cat,

my photos,

and stuff to put around my neck.

And you'll see.

It won't be like the drunk's wisdom.

I won't be that girl for so many people which leaves them wishing down the line that they

could've

should've

would've

loved me.

I can't possibly be more assertive. It's not my way.

I'm gentle and gullible and a whole gang of other words beginning with g's.

But in the autumn I'll be warm and content.

Settled--

like the dirt in my shoes,

the wine in my glass,

a cowgirl's blues,

alas.

Or at last?

I don't know where I want this to go.

I just know that I don't want it to end.

Peace

I feel calm.

I can feel my blood, my heart.

I can see music floating to my ears and I can see nothing bad happening for a little while.

We can stay here.

We can be still and just be.

There are no worries, no obligation, no pain.

Summer kisses me with sun each day and I play hide and seek with the moon at night.

I can stand on shores and hear the ocean.

I can touch trees and feel their history.

I am young.

I am infinite.

I am fancy-free.

I'm going to live the best life ever and it starts over each second.

I'm glad I never killed myself all of those times I wanted to.

I'm thankful for all of the luck I've found.

I'm excited.

Summer Lovin'

I'm a warm summer mess

in a cool summer dress

crossin' state lines and

statin' lines 'cross

telephones.

I want to talk for hours.

I want to swim in lakes.

I want to find the source for whatever it is that's making me

crazy&

excited&

alive.

Discover why just holding hands makes me wet.

Find the well from which it flows and dance on stars

in bars

in cars

and sing with birds.

Find some words written on walls where I'd never thought to look.

Shake hands and sleep intertwined.

There's no reason not to.

Why not?