pulse

i would offer you my pulse but honestly it's too erratic these days and always to impose on anyone but myself; i would offer you something else of myself to save you but i'm not sure salvation's what you need.

i rode up the path by the lake yesterday afternoon and watched girls running through a thick blanket of white fuzzy dandelions like wading through snowdrifts in deep chicago winters, or like the way our dog used to leap over the waves of thick tall grass in the pasture behind our house.

i tell too many stories about old jobs and old lives and old places in general; i've an answer for everything and i kind of wish i didn't anymore. i wish more was of the new. how long have days been slipping away so fast, without me even noticing? magical and exciting adventures, the breathless moments that seem the most important of all, are only in these stories, lately.

i need something slow.