Nothing changes but the slightest hues.

Simplification may be my best bet tonight; this is what I learned while in the silence:
It's not so hard to say I love you and mean it.
Real eye contact is fucking scary, the sort that feels like something is being sucked from the back of your heart and makes you uncomfortable breathing. It's the best kind by far.
I should not mix exercise, huger and fatigue. Ever.
I live for male attention. It's what makes me happiest, and I don't think I like that.

I need a little time to level out.

I'll be spending the next four days in silent reflection or hopefully beyond thought, but my sense of memory is already becoming painfully acute. I was warned about this. Last year all this turned out to be my double-edged sword, determining a year's worth of life choices. This year I don't expect much different.

Ask it aloud.

Yesterday when I went to visit my grandfather he was in a medicated daze in his hospital bed, ninety years of uncertain guilt filmed over his eyes. He didn't realize he was whispering. His words are still stuck with me.
What does it take to be a decent human being?

No direction home.

I guess nobody has much to say anymore. I never expected to feel uncomfortable in such an innocent and pure silence. And now so many sounds and none of them voices.
I wonder if you still read this. I know you used to, but I wonder if it's trivial now.
I wish you would point me north.

Every year, another.

After the rain I end up outside
in my silk Hepburn robe
just at dusk, wanting to cry
because the slug on the front steps is so damn ugly.
Then I think to myself,
I'll write about this
and almost change my mind
because I only write when I feel like crying
and now it's just another bad habit.

Like a bridge.

It should be wonderful, to look at something exactly how it is, to let light pour through the lenses of my eyes with a mindless appreciation. Vivid details are vaguely acknowledged, a shiftless dream of anxiety asks how it's suddenly possible to think nothing after trying so hard for all these years.
I wonder how I can stop dreaming about moths and Cadillacs.