an experiment expounded

today is not the day.

strange psychology, your head not quite finished, everything a blur and not wanting to think. shoes and socks and red lips, mere parts of a whole that is yet to be seen. stepping over piles just to get to the door.

waiting had commenced and then ended, now has commenced again and you can't bring yourself to want to stop caring.

there's no real temptation here and your knuckles are cracking and peeling; want a smoke and a pair of lace up boots, want to sit on a broken black leather sofa and carve names into the coffee table. last time the green wood scarred, jeremy and chinese winter and no flinch at the feel of the blade against your forearm or heat on the back of your hand.

seventeen, eighteen with aplomb.

watched him walk out the door with another girl, a blonde who couldn't carry winter like you could, not as cute but willing to make sacrifices, willing to give in or just not caring so maybe she could be touched. maybe feeling the consequences of a birthday, another year with nothing accomplished. remembering to be reassured.

want to hold his hand again on mckinley avenue, want itemized the differences between here and home - suddenly beautiful, suddenly not, beautiful where you can't be seen, all the j names like a knot underneath your sternum. you tried but today your cheeks are too, too pink.

j called you at 3 am because he knew you weren't sleeping and sang songs like an angel until he heard you begin to breathe; j lost you in the dark and said come here, come here until you wound hands tight in his hair and covered his mouth with your own, so swollen it felt unreal; j looked away and that connection snapped like a rubber band against your wrist so you knew you'd never really get to see behind those eyes again; j held your arm while you staggered through a hospital parking lot, too young to see what was ahead; j slid across the slick balcony floor in the pouring rain and knocked you onto your knees your mouth pouring blood black in the twilight; j left you behind on that black leather sofa out the door with that blonde on his arm because she was simple, because she wouldn't want to really know anything about him; j hugged you in the parking lot while it snowed on your hair and put his hands inside your coat like he needn't ask for permission.

at that time in your life everything was a song so when you went home that afternoon you picked up your guitar and tried to tell him and the world just exactly how it felt with his hands on your ribcage in the slick parking lot but you could only strike g with all the force you could muster and scream "INAPPROPRIATE" at the top of your lungs.

what was real, what was real?

that carpet so thick you could dig into it like sand, the lights on the tree red and white, your voice in his head over and over again not knowing why it had come out that way. that was maybe real.

a tragic attempt to reconquer reality, to mold it - not to write like yourself anymore but make something better. avoidance. waiting for stomachaches, making an effort towards questionable authenticity, have you ever really believed in ownership? his hair sunset orange that first day, flipped up again and again out of his eyes, longer than yours.

you've wanted it back because it existed.

today is not the day.