I often accidently talk about other boys I've dated in front of the boys I actually like or am dating or want to kiss on the mouth repeatedly and tell secrets to.
(A special "thank you" goes out to Jessica P . . . I probably should have been told that about 7 years ago. Ugh. Where is my guardian angel that keeps my tongue from wagging?)
It's a good thing I'm a math whiz.
Sigur Ros was beautiful concert.
I saw the girl in front of me lean her head on the shoulder of the boy next to her.
I looked left and a young man in a beanie kept his hands to his face, catching tears.
I touched my cheeks with my fingertips trying to remember the exact color of your eyes.
I turned my head to find where you were, and got lost in a sea of faces and half faces and eyebrows and foreheads all glowing golden.
I looked up and caught confetti on my tongue like it was a snowflake.
I found this in my old notebook in one of my old purses during my recent move to Provo . . . I think I wrote it when I was in a sling for a few weeks last fall:
"Here I go writing down the same poem again. It's like, it's as if, it's just . . . eating my insides, making it a more mallable gum. My liver lost shape. I lost my kidneys to personality cancer and my stomach to the longest winter ever."
I finally found all my lost limbs limbs and gave a strict talking to my misbehaving joints under my covers after my nap last Friday. I'm feeling altogether whole. Good, better, best. Maybe it's the cold air and scarf weather sewing up my stitches and filling in my cracks with wax like a Grecian sculpture. I am every bit alive.
This is what I want to do for the rest of my life.