When We Were There We Could Not Hear the Waves Crashing Behind the Glass but Now, Looking Back, We can Feel the Crashings in our Bones

 

Tell me about getting your heart broken. Tell me about the grey days. Tell me about the times when you felt no thing would ever satisfy. Tell me about this time. Tell me about that time when you were happy but didn’t yet know it. Tell me about the energy. Tell me about the waiting and the anxious stomachs. Tell me about the air and the salt in it. Tell me about the power there and the distance that we must gain. Tell me about the purge and the surge and the painful uneventful days in which you wish something would move. Tell me about the undying. Tell me if it exists. Tell me how it is easy and difficult. Tell me how I should look and speak and lie. Tell me about the time you realized your death. Tell me about the time you were gracious in your ugliness. Tell me about the time you’d wished I would awaken. Tell me about the time you left and didn’t regret not turning the light off. Tell me about the endless and sordid insatiable. Tell me how to polish the façade. Tell me how to be. Tell me about the bar stools and about wooden noses that grow. Tell me about the sea, the sea, the sea, the ocean, and the bay. Tell me about the smell. Tell me about the smell of the earth and the wilderness within it. Tell me about the wandering. Tell me about the time you got lost in the city and the cotton candy machine broke. Tell me about rising. Tell me about the time we compared the sizes of our hands. Tell me about my skin. Tell me about my lengths. Tell me about the end of the night’s unraveling and our unwillingness to sleep it off until morning. Tell me about the ways in which you loved and hated me. Tell me about the time we ran away to the beach and we took our best clothes and the windy green and purple bruises we acquired in doing so. Tell me about the THC stoned anxiety wishes that sprang from our ignorance. Tell me about the wooden structures that you bent me over. Tell me about the way I look when I get there. Tell me about your ability to quiet it all down. Tell me about the echoes. Tell me about the other night. Tell me with feeling. Tell me while you get angry and furrow. Tell me when you hold back the watering eyes and tell me while you wonder how far back it was when you decided to. Tell me about the time I wrote you out on the blank ugly nothingness of the page and you ran out of me like you use to run out of me down the legs of my expectations.

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Author: circadianrefrain

Female. 26. Writer/Artist

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