I’ve got my days where I wake up imagining a skyline of a city reeling like a dream of a steady walk on a plate, a spinning broken record. Everything around me is moving, the lonesome pine tree comes as it goes, it fades never to be seen again. I have my head out of the window of a car and I try hard to remember what constellation there should be in November but I can’t recall any because my memory etched only of a Dipper in June and nothing else. I feel safe as I did when it was a different person driving me down 180. My favourite song is not playing on the car stereo anymore, but what does a permanent etch of an emotion so temporary I feel for a person long gone means anymore?
Words, money, postcards: they all get washed out.
Spinning, spinning, spinning. I call down the hurricane at the sea where a seaman hands me an orange lighter, one I flicked to burn your polaroids. Was always the arsonist child with a reckless desire of setting fire to everything she loved. That fucker with blister on her index finger. Got that same song playing to send your ashes to hell. The last time you were buried near home now your graveyard can hear the sailor chant.
I hope the Sun reaches you, Icarus.
I imagine meeting you in the hidden hills. I imagined jumping off the balcony and into the fog, into a smokescreen and to be rebirth into your arms. I wanted the ferns I curled my hands out to, to take away the skin you have once touched. Tug into my fucking cells like poison ivy and make my skin forget how it felt to feel you.
The looming, ancient trees echo out my hushed words. I said it ever so slowly so that the fae listens to it right, since you can’t.
I have forgotten how morning lights were supposed to make me feel when I woke up thinking of him. The fog never cleared inside my head since I left the hills.
For every phone calls I received and ones I never did and never will, I deleted every voicemail that is just empty money you poured to me. This is the happiest I would be without you.
