Solitaire

I try to hold all the cards and never show them. Because if you saw them they'd be scattered, out of order. I keep them facing inward because it always seems easier to know I'm if winning or losing in private. It's a secret I tell to just about anyone who will listen, but I keep my lips locked tight while we're playing.
My hands are too small to hold them all. I can't do it anymore. I'm working up the courage to lay some on the table before you.


I hope that you can make them add up into some combination that makes sense to us both.

The sun is out,

I had a lot written down in poorly formed metaphors I thought might hide the things I'm feeling well enough for me not to feel self conscious,

but fuck it.

I've been smiling more lately than I have in the past 4 years. That's not an exaggeration. I am excited about things. I'm in love with all of this.

...but

After every fit of giggles or quiet smiles to myself there is a familiar heaviness. And I hate you for that.

I think

everything is exactly what it seems

Portrait

     She thought she'd carry his picture around, if people carried photographs anymore. The edges would be yellow from wear. She'd carry it in a pocket where she could rest her hand on it  from time to time, imagining it closed the distance between them.
     She'd lay in her old bed. She'd be afraid for it's much darker here. She'd wonder if the music she heard existed somewhere deep in the surrounding woods, or if it is just her imagination trying hard to save her from the solitude she was buried in. Eyes shut tight against the night, she'd press his picture to her chest, tracing his shape with her fingertips; imagining his blue eyes locked on hers. She'd never been so intrigued with blue. These eyes were new, these eyes felt easy, safe. 
     She'd long to tell him of her travels. Her "adventures." She'd make them sound that way. She'd try to make him meet her, somewhere in between. She knew through the thick darkness and the heat of the day she'd never see him again.  Never hear his distinct voice settle her shaky one. She knew she wasn't the traveling type. It was all just a pretty picture on someone else's wall, or a nice idea in a book she'd read, or a friend had read, or she always wanted to read. 
     The truth is she is lost. And not a map or a compass could lead her back home. 

Update. I guess.

So, I have internet...
A guy about my age angrily came to my door to perform what would become a 2 and half hour service that would eventually consist of killing various bugs outside of my house, a sing along, story time, 3 cigarette breaks, and finally plugging in the right cable so that I can blog like a normal person. 


This is Nashville. 


I have seen fireflies and lightning bolts. Real ones. 
Real nature. 
Real beauty.
I've felt real fear. 
I've lost and then found myself at least 5 times daily. 
I've done more loads of laundry than I can count. 
I've painted my nails 7 different colors. 
I've wash the same glass every day for 2 weeks. 
I have had some of the best conversations on a porch with people close to me,
and on the phone with those that are far away. 


I want to be in two places at once all of the time. 
But only so I can let the people I miss know that I miss them. 
There are nights that should have lasted longer. 
Beds I wish I'd never left. 
Eyes whose gaze I wish I could hold. Because I would. I fucking would.


But this is distance. 


And it's real.