sixteen august
five : fifty-eight p.m.

i imagine me on my back, and this record spinning, and the room spinning right along with it. roofless and flying.

i could write about you and the beginning of you (when she first told me, and then that night when we sang along) and your hair and your window ("the tree blooms in spring. i watch everyone from here.") and your fingers and your talking watch ("i loved her..she never lied to me. but she's sick. she doesn't talk anymore.") and your truck and your step and you forever, but i'll just mention how i haven't seen you around lately, and how every second i am with you becomes the most important thing in the world.




listen : secret song three