eighteen december
twelve : twelve a.m.

these are the nights - when seventy feels like one hundred and eighty-nine is as good as dead - that i think about the ones who film the world through textured glass, stand on the porch during rainstorms, assign names to concrete statues in the park, cut their own hair. they stop by too late and ask for feelings i can't give them and tell me things i wish weren't true.

i drove for hours, singing along as hard as i could.