I find it apt

I find it apt to give the rain the credit it is due. For long, you and your torrent sang to us--those caged in "windowless" bedrooms and roofless roadsides. I was at the waiting shed and, your friend, the clouds (dark as they were), told me you were coming. So I stayed, shaking my left leg incessantly as I stood. Dum di dum. Tappity tap. And I started to sing and. You arrived in a rush. I continued in my trademark faux baritone, attempting the best failure of a Louis Armstrong cum Ella Fitzgerald I could. Miserable. I laughed. It seemed that you liked my crappy singing. More tears. Heavier drops--bigger with the weight of the world--pitter pattered on the aluminum roof. I stopped and let you continue. There's nothing better than your urging me to continue my singing. I stopped and ended with a silent reverie. Breaking the noise with my silence. No, my darling. I will not go singing. I have given you the credit you are due. Continue your serenade while I cage myself again in my "windowless" bedroom.

-August 18 (2007?), 2:07 pm

Pink-tinted the way

Pink-tinted the way the TV glistens for me

Ruby-red lips are all I can remember

Temporary amnesia has taken hold

And I thank whatever god made me this way it so

Just try

To let the words come out of your moth

Dance on the lips my ears

Twing twing twing

-2007 or 2008

Found in my sophomore year

college notebook

I wanted to carve the ice with you

I wanted to carve the ice with you. How the blades fitted at the bottom of our soles--rather SOULS--made the softest of hearts on the hardest of liquids known to man. I wanted to lay down, back on the cold, head in the clouds, hand in your hand, and all that is cliched beyond comprehension. It is the brutality (carving), the strength (hardness), and utter fuzziness that leaves me without words. This isn't all I want it to be--my writing. Senseless. Senselessness. Simply, I want to carve the ice with you.

- August 15 (2007?), 12:50 am

Probably had just watched

"Eternal Sunshine"

or listened to

Stars' "Your Ex-Lover

is Dead."

She was left on her own

She was left on her own, pondering the meaning--or rather lack of meaning--of existence. Yes. It bothered her. It shook her to the bones. Blood possibly curdling while one red cell pushed another forward while moving along inside a vain (sic). He didn't know her. He didn't know of her. But his recent passing gave her the chills. Teeth-chattering, knee-knocking chills. She placed herself in his room, looking up at the feet (that connected to the legs then to the pelvis, then to the torso, then to the arms...) dangling from above. She stared qute (sic) a while then moved to touch his clothing. She moved him. Swung him from left to right. Twisted the rope that hung him out to dry thrice. And then let go. The rope unravelled (sic) and so did he. It wasn't a sick or demented mind that made her playful with his hanging corpse. Rather, it was curiosity. A curiosity that made her look up at the unblinking eyes (attached to the head, attached to the neck...) that looked down on her. The irony. He was dead. But she was "on top." Like an angel wiping a cloud clean and peering down below, he stared. And she responded. A staring content, apparently, that neither of them could lose.

- A college notebook find,

probably September 2008