Wednesday, July 12, 2017



It happened once, in a house, at a party in a house.
I've never been one to let my mind slip too loosely, and so the memories
remain even if in shifty, fluorescent snapshots of faces I don't truly know.

When spirits look like water, the well of fun runs deep until sunrise.
I think that time only wishes to be gentle with the restless, the ones who stay out late
to rid themselves of loneliness.

Time sneaks tomorrow right into the now, and we still call the morning the darkest hour of the night. How concerned it must feel for us all to bring in a new day right under our noses so that, if even for a matter of hours, forever feels like an actual state of mind not bound and listed by hours.

I might have seen you first, but the story of who's-who and who-what-when has never held my interest. You might have seen me first for all I know, yet things happened just the same.

I hardly go to those sorts of things for fear of being unwanted. I have a horrid habit of making myself small so as not to take up too much space. Get me alone, and I will be an ocean. But put me in a sea of people, and I will drown in the tide.

Yet you saw me somehow, standing across the room, bobbing in the current. Probably watching me let go of my smallness, and growing larger with each lost inhibition.

I saw you look, and so I looked away. And when I looked again, you weren't there. Or perhaps you just looked like a fluorescent screaming color -- a light in the darkest hour of the night, straining yourself over the ocean so that I could see home.


It happened once, in a house, at a party in a house.
A small piece of me, found like a small shard of glass that has a streak of color running through it if you hold it to the light.


You must have cut your finger on the edge.

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