Perhaps I aspire to love. The return. The thousand year wandering of the soul and so on.
Perhaps I will drink a lot of cava.
To always have something—someone— else going on.
Send the Facebook message. Send the text message.
Block me. I wish we lived in the same city.
Arrange a weekend of “just sex”—I mean “only sex.” I still need to write complete sentences.
No, I don’t want to see a picture.
Yes, I want to see a picture.
Liver instead of lover.
The outer body is a stinking cadaver.
Shared stuffed animal collection. Stare at the wedding detritus. Glasses. Decanter.
Take the stuffed animals to the stuffed animal shrine and pray for them and their memories.
The birthday wine. Kiss the cat that always needs kisses. My animal voice is low but M’s is high.
Valley view hot springs and Zappa falls, somewhere near the Colorado sand dunes. I drive west with stuffed animals in the trunk, a parrot in the front, depressed and glad to drive alone.
Drive through one panic attack. Consider the horizon. My lack of language for panic and the landscape.
These are recommendations: Yoram Kaniuk. Take 285 to 17 for the hot springs and alien landing sites. 64 for Rio Grande Gorge.
Advice about yoga studios. G asks, “Am I your rebound”? No.
Vague recipe for whole wheat pasta—the shape is unspecified—with butternut squash. I am pretending that I will not just make macaroni and cheese.
Lazy furies, fall asleep, please.
Legs ache instead of the heart.
I take forever. Back episodes of Grimm and Covert Affairs.
Most things feel good. Bland, attractive men.
Sweet and tender texts and emails and phone calls to someone else, how devoid of sweetness we’d become. Mid-hike phone break. Mid-conversation phone break.
Binge watch. My desire is diffuse and without future. Are you claustrophobic when you go down on me? Apply for jobs.