you try so hard to be everything, and nothing you do is right.

oh irony.

occasionally i have these spells where i don't sleep much for a few days. i read and i write for hours at a time. there's a few weeks of tortured sanity when i question everything and play out meticulous scenarios in my head. what if i did this, Right Now. then what? and i think about the way we'd talk and how you'd hold your mouth all crooked. and i think about all the words that we'd use and all the promises that we'd make and each and every syllable seems so plausible and so real, that i can't help but think that maybe i'm on the brink of screwing this whole thing up. i don't mean that i want to cross that line, but i don't want to get too far removed from being able to take a step backwards.

because i see pictures of what another version of this story might look like. because i think that sometimes predictability is the worst thing about the future. because i can't keep singing the same thing. because i can't seem to remember to hold onto everything as it rushes by.

the future. well everybody's always thinking about the future, but the past is important. you told me that everything is a learning experience. so i'm learning to breath and think about other things, pull harder on other strings. but i won't complain.

so i'm nothing but one run-on sentence flowing awkwardly into the next, a string of obvious words that you always saw but never read. and when i compliment you, you just talk about the weather or somebody else's hand wrapped around yours.

so smooth me out like a blanket on the grass. and you ran behind trees and talked quietly like there was someone around to hear. i won't say regret. i'll just quietly hope that you'll come to your senses and find me standing in front of you with the right thing to say.

and maybe we'll all be okay to leave it at that.