I relearned you in a dream.

My subconscious takes me down every path that leads me to you. Subconsciously, of course. It’s on my side. You and I were on the same side. In the metro car traveling beneath D.C. On the bench resting in the Roanoke mall. Laying in the Gladys roads after dark. My town, not yours. Now you tell me you’ll be coming to the place where I live. Not coming for me. But you’d always call for me. We talked about baby names late at night. On the phone for hundreds of minutes. All for fun. Playing pretend that was always a little real. My reality now: you aren’t within my vision. I want to see through the eyes of the people who surround you. I want to see you. I want to look and look and look and look. And look. Doesn’t matter that I have you memorized already. Thick eyebrows. The freckles in your green eyes. The way you’re proud of your full eyelashes when they stick together in the corners. The white flesh between your thumb and index finger in otherwise tanned skin. The veins in your wrists. Your slim fingers. The way you were proud of taking my hand as we were crossing the street, leaving the carnival. You’d tell me I’m being silly. I’d tell you I loved you for a long time.

Stop. Go.

There’s something amazingly compelling about limits. Knowing you have to stop—doesn’t that ever make you fight harder? Do you ever want to see how far you’ll go before you reach breaking point? I think it’s the thrill of not knowing. And the fear. I’m terrified of not knowing what is enough. It’s like that game girls and boys play. A girl sits beside a boy and he puts his hand on her leg. He starts at the knee. Slowly, he inches his hand upward. He keeps going. She doesn’t resist. His hands are steadily making their way up. She squirms out of the way just before he reaches that unspeakable bit of thigh. And there’s the limit. Sometimes I am the girl who does not move a muscle. I do not flinch when that roaming hand nears the upper thigh. It’s not for the gratification of that stupid boy. It’s for me. I will always dare myself to go beyond my limits. I shouldn’t. But I can’t help it. I don’t want to be afraid of not doing enough or not being enough.

concept > reality.

I often like the idea of a thing more than the thing itself. I fall in and out of love with concepts every day.

no breathing.

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This is how long I held my breath while pushing the x key.
Gotta work on that lung capacity.

broken bones.

Do you remember when you broke your collar bone? We gathered our things and went to the hospital at the most normal pace. Unhurried. We drove the speed limit the whole way. Maddening. In the seat next to me, you were so small. The veins in your neck fed blue pallor into the rest of your skin. Your lips were the lightest possible shade of pink. You said you were cold. But I watched the sweat roll down your forehead, follow the line of your brow, and drip into your eyes; collecting in the thick clumps of your lashes. You were as still as I’d ever seen you. I talked. I joked. I tried to be gentle when I poured water into your mouth. We hit a pot hole in the same moment and I spilled it over your face. Sweat and water mixed and gave you the shakes. I couldn’t stop looking at you. Do you remember how small you were? I worried the sharp bone would poke through the skin at your neck, making a deadly incision. Blood and sweat and water mixed. But the bone remained rooted in place. Your skin stayed clean, intact. Blue and purple blotches formed around the swelling beneath that smooth skin. And you sat so calm with that broken bone. And I was so frantic with my broken heart to match.

don't make this inappropriate, people.

I love closeness. I love being pressed against another person. Granted, I retract that statement when I’m on a bus or a subway and someone is taking up my breathing room. But, as a general rule, I like being touched. Let’s not get dirty, here. Likewise, I want to touch everything. I like textures and the different feel of things. I like physical contact. If you look like you have nice, touchable hair or elbows or eyelashes, even, I’m gonna want to go for it. I won't, though. I try to respect personal space boundaries. But if I could, I would touch everyone. So when we’re squished together in the backseat of your car or you flop down beside me on the couch, I really don't mind.

maybe I'm anemic.

I've been exhausted all week. Why, you ask? I have no freaking idea. Really. I haven't done anything out of the ordinary. I haven't really done any strenuous exercise. So why, why, why am I so tired?? My mom suggested I might be anemic. So, naturally, I'm going with that. Now I don't know the first thing about anemia or if my symptoms match up, but humans generally like to have excuses so anemia will be mine this time around. Really, I'd much rather have a disease than be accurately diagnosed as a sloth- wouldn't you?
Moving on.
Spring is coming. I can feel it. And I am excited.
Next thing you know it'll be summer and I'll never ever be inside except for when I need to take a stroll down those refrigerated aisles of Smith's to get away from the hot hot Utah heat. But I ain't afraid. Do your worst, Utah. I just want to be warm for good.