all the houses look the same here. these too thin walls and worn down frames. i keep seeing your ghost walk through, but i can’t tell which one bears your name.

it’s taken me a month of therapy to realize i’m not crazy. to start learning to sleep at night. and to know i can’t stay here and stay sane.

i left before you woke. at eighteen, you were the first girl i kissed because i didn’t know better. the first ghost my mouth knew.

Seperate from each other, but indelibly intertwined.

Sometimes, when nights are particularly lonesome and dreadful, I think about writing you letters. Letters I’ll never send. Letters, that like the others, would be returned. Unopened.

The loss of your friendship will continue to trouble me until I become a quiet, old man. Though, I know, I will someday read your books.

We have the heat on as a peace offering. My own arrogance working its way into your pants as we smoke our cigarettes too fast. I feel like we would meet each other again, if by chance we never met.

Tonight I smoked my cigarette way too fast. Inhaling deeply, letting nicotine flood. I smoked the rest of the pack in the same fashion, wishing to numb your arrival. In my thoughts you were still one and the same. It’s been years since we were, while some days we still are. And I feel like we’ll be competing forever.

I should have gone for the gin.

• today i’m going to drive home four hours listening to bonarroo music
• and i’m going to start reading harry potter over!
• i’m taking a few days off just to sleep this year off
• i’m going to buy a new sketchbook just to write in
• a new sketchbook just to doodle in
• i’m excited

Tonight was beautiful in the best of ways. I drove around with a dear friend, crying and screaming along with Marcus Mumford as the Mumford and Sons live cd made everything okay. Hoping that the louder I screamed the more emotion I would release, and the more tears I shed the better off I would be. I sat on a hill, eating Bonnaroo ice cream, with whiskey caramel swirls that were nearly non-existent, watching the moon glow orange behind clouds. Making lists and tracing life. Hoping for patterns to die, and looking toward the future with hope.

There were the first few times they collided. Head first, or feet first, or sprawled out on an undersized bed. There were the first few times they actually spoke to one another. Names first, desires first, moving along. Hoping their actions, not words, would lead them into a place where they could silently follow. Step after step, after… just moving along in continuity. Occasionally they would dance. Occasionally they would begin to know one another, or lose track. Occasionally they would begin again, colliding. Repeating the motions, begging to know each other as they played in silence.