Tangled

Tangled

How this always goes back to you. How
you are the needle and I am the thread.
How you have no idea. How I’d pay for
that kind of blissful ignorance. When I’m
standing, barefoot, in my kitchen, my hair
tumbling down past my shoulders, wiping
the counters clean, I linger on the dents
and marks that pepper the surface like the
moon’s own ruined features. I think of your
scars. I think of the destruction of bodies,
of holier places than your collarbones. I
think of how you’re always bruising up your
elbows and how lonely they must be if
they’re willing to blend in with the night. All
that dead weight. All that lonely. My
father tells me how good I am at making fists,
how my fingers are perfectly suited for
grabbing, for reaching. For holding. When
I fold up the damp cloth and set it aside I
notice a stray thread at the edge of my
sleeve. I think of you, all pristine and sharp.
You are still the needle. I think of you
and pull.

– Kristina H.

 

today is a day for biased recollection, for dreamy possibilities, for little emails and big coffees,  for recounting words and interpreting gestures, for comparison, for disappointment in what is gone and anticipation for what could come.

more for the first date files. 

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