i walked?

23 Nov

Hum-fucking-drum.
I find the older I get the more I notice things out of the realm of others’ sight. It is strange and it firmly cements me in my earthly binds, which might be a good thing, I guess, but currently things are confusing me and I can’t seem to find the air I’m swimming towards.
I am lying on a twin-size bed in a house that isn’t really my home but will have to do at least for this week while some people I don’t know go into my house and replace the tiny Mount Vesuviuses of tile that are stuck to the floor. The room that the bed and I are in is a yellowy off-white, probably named something infinitely clever by the company who manufactures it. Probably something like “cloud” or “7th Heaven” or maybe something vaguely angel related: “we have heard on high” comes to mind; or something similar.
More worrying, though (at least to me) are the dreams and general ennui plaguing me involving The Poet. I look into a window and think I see his face- I hope fervently while I work that I’ll look up at one of the tourists and it’ll be his smiling face looking down at me, asking “well, imagine this!” and presently congealing into a lovely conversation. I miss this Poet. I miss him a helluvalot. I want him here, or I want to be there, or something– somehow, I want us to talk again under the leaves of old oak trees, watching water cascade into fountains– or running home in the rain, clutching a hot crepe to our chests.

So many memories. I can’t keep them from flooding my mind.
Wil visited Paris a few weeks ago, I am very jealous. I hope it’s treated him nicely. I hope he went to Rue Vavin and stood there, quiet and pensive. I hope he understands the changes it created in all of us. I hope he knows.

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