• it was 3pm and the fog was still curling around the tree trops in somber gray crowns. when I want to get really out of my mind, I walk into the woods. right then I was walking pretty aimlessly, alone, save the hibernating leaf litter phantoms.

  there's this sunday school bible verse in which the body is the temple of the holy spirit. but I also read from a poet that a human being is made out of forest canopies. I decide on the latter and give myself to the anomalous sort of hopelessness settling into the threads of my sweater. for a mile or two, I pretend to be robert frost, but I was never really cut out for the transcendental club. so instead I drop my backpack and dig for earbuds. I dig for my earbuds for a good 5 minutes and the split second I realize where they are, my phone rings. the sound is deafening and I feel the forest toss and turn, like who knew you could even pick up a phone connection out in the backcountry? I apologize to the trees profusely. 

  on my phone, in my hands, your name sends a shot of warmth through my bloodstream, like espresso, diluted by a panicked "hello?" you voice is angry. and abrasive! and amplified by the fog, asking why I left my earbuds at your house. you told me not to leave any of my shit in your apartment! you asked me twice if had everything, and I reassured you I did. what kind of game was I trying to play??

  I tell you to just throw them away. the earbuds. my thumb reflexively brushes over the end call button and the fog crackles. I am jack's complete lack of surprise.

  but it still hits me hard, it still brings my knees to the wet leaves that seep their way deep into my patellas. the fog shackles my wrists to the ground and I sit there for a long pathetic time. I know why you're angry at me, but they're just fucking earbuds. they have no haunt potential.

  but then I think of your stupid bobby pins, which I still occasionally find on my bedroom floor, sometimes with rogue strands of copper hair still attatched. I think of how they probably got there. I think of your red lips, your fingers tugging at hems, my fingers tugging at rubber bands, carefully plucking out each pin until your hair fell to your shoulders in red rivers.

  like what is it about breakups that makes me romanticize the shit out of girls and their hair?

  I think about the events leading up to this point with my knees and palms pressing against the forest floor. I think about your won't-ever-happen-again face as you walk out the door.

  ok

  I was supposedly incommunicado and there was someone else.

  ok

  not that I'm jealous or upset or feel strange in anyway.

  well...ok  

• your sentiments are sad but your words are so pretty.

  Fallen Leaveson November 18, 2014   Link

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      There was an error.

    please. I am but a tumbleweed

    CleanLaundryon November 18, 2014  

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