it was said that this would be the time of my life. sometimes, it is. days wear sunlight and i can hear an ocean miles away. some of the salt is found in my cup.
other times, though, i sit here, baked by the sun, burnt by it, thinking what it means to be turned inside out. i try to find out. i stick my hands in the pain of the empty, bring a heart to a head, put it in the mouth, explain to the voiceless that i needed something to prop it open, to keep it stable. it is still, dead months ago.
these small thoughts are the same, backwards little teethy things, reflections on reflections. the mirror is dirty, the water is drowning on itself.
but i remember how we swam, how we failed to see ourself in the water of gasoline. how many lives ago was that? how was green water so blue?
that must’ve been the life, what this was all about. for then, slow and full, it was timeless.
now against this hurried night pulsing little light, i think this letter has taken me too long. i must be going, to find those people that make me feel like me, that do not make me ask where have i gone, and worse, answer that i do not know. how could i? i did not watch me much.
later, people will point and say, he looks too drunk. he should go home.
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