Just purchased VIP tickets to the Treasure Island Music Festival in San Francisco!

500 fingernails later

In the morning my hands are quick,

jumping to the jutting of my hips, forever counting ribs.

I bend to reach my shirt (sent sailing last night)

and rise to see disappointment shroud your face.

That's why I leave you sleeping while I dress, most days.

A couple

Everything feels hectic.
Like the circles I'm running in are shrinking, and every so often I bump shoulders with myself.
Well, excuse me, didn't see you there.
If I could grab hold of something (anything!) along the way that indicates I'm heading in the right direction, maybe there would be room for a breath or a gasp or a sigh. A sign amongst hundreds.

Now I scrub at the words I've spread out to others, and wish to retain the ink for myself.
I wring the sponge, watch blackish water drip,
find safety in its silent slip away.

89550010, originally uploaded by anamezic.

atmosphere

Flickr

This is a test post from , a fancy photo sharing thing.

I remember screaming as loud as I could at the bottom of the pool.

Fighting with the water as it tried to send me up.

Floating on an expanse so dark you could lay and imagine space cradling you, ripe with stars and suns.
And the perfect teal sea in the morning, when I awoke in search of distraction.
I see us walking home.

Your hands, your shoes, the night you thought of me before we had ever spoken.
I hold you tightly in my memories, but you slipped through my fingers.

My fingers are quivering.
Not a full blown shake, but my chest holds no courts. Never waits for a reasonable answer. Just gasps at the thought of dialing and hearing something other than a sudden disconnect.
You don't know. According to the signals you receive, you havent received any. But I try and I quake in the grips of the word.
"I'm trying"
to forget.
to remember.
these few days that made me dependent on you. In chest
(In)dependent. In thought processes that I can control.
Even now I am convinced that it is nothing but sweet words in summer air,
Still I am forgetting your face, and the way you speak. Foreign accent in your native language rolling off my tongue as I pondered the things you'd say paying at the gas station. Funny looks from the cashier
at your mumbled words in my mouth, followed by unsuppressable laughter.
Tonight, paniced breathing when I can't hear it anymore, and I dial for a taste of what I'm pulled from.