the ovals of airplane windows.

how to arrange the cadence into song. how to sing at all. how to impress the family by showing up late with tomato juice drops on the front of my freshly (finally) washed t-shirt. my legs always ache with sitting still. i'm terrified of being old and stiff, now with my knees and glutes already aching all the time. i can't even sit through a movie, let alone a flight. (remember those eight days crammed on busses last year, or my rubbery legs last week?)

we're so lonely even together that sometimes i wonder what either of us could do to be a bit whole or right or even okay.

on the airplane, I read a book about earthworms and all their subterrestrial lives, the relationship of these crawling blind creatures to the movement of continents, "...the tiny bristle-like hairs called setae that worms use to anchor themselves in their burrow or to hold onto one another when they mate". how beautiful, how small.

if we end as we begin, it will have to be in a shy conversation about the weather, not in a big mess of shouts and fists and things breaking to bits. all we can do is talk in double negatives and i think it's time to move to the other side of the axis.

i want, i want, i want, not what i don't.

the cartography of yr ups and downs could build mountains out of mere divets in the earth.

everyone's niceties are finally coming out with the sunshine, like my bare legs seeing the light of day for the first time in months.