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Wednesday, February 18th, 2015

I'll be thinking of him and his nacre ghost, the scar on his thumb that has lingered since middle school, his footsteps on the hardwood floors, the night he said 'hello,' his frown while he rested into sleep and his smile when he let it show. I'll be thinking of him all the time, just as I have been. But I have nothing else to say. I miss him, and that's all it boils down to anymore. In summers to come his smell will blow by subtly on a July breeze, tugging the hair in my nostrils, and I'll think of him. That's how these things go.

Thank you for reading.


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What if

Sunday, February 15th, 2015

Dear C,

It's been one month since I first wrote about my knees giving in on Allen Street; I was doing a better job of managing all of this back then, when I could still smell you on my pillows. You feel so far away now, I find myself wondering if you're even real. I see you in a t-shirt in my iPhoto, smiling while sipping from a Solo, but it's hard to believe the person in those pictures still exists in a world separate from mine. I spend so much time trying to imagine how you're doing, what you're up to, whether you hate me or, worse, don't think of me at all. But much of what I think about is myself. I can't stand it. The very act of this writing is quite selfish, leaving aside how intrinsically self-centered it is. That was often an issue though - how consumed I was with myself. I didn't mean to be. But I know intentions don't change anything, because if they did we'd be together.


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Just Him

Saturday, February 14th, 2015

"Just you," I would whisper as I swept my eye lashes against his cheek, "just you."

The two roses remain weeping in the vase beside the sink, their petals crisp and currant. He gave me the first one on a warm and breezy summer evening. The weekend he moved out his things I took the train to Westchester to sit in the grass and look at the sky and try to put things into place. When I returned we met in Chinatown for dim sum; in his hand he clutched the crimson. He brought the second when he came by on New Year's Day. My bones buckled. I guess that was the point.

Lonely as I am, I don't want anybody else. I just want my friends to come home. Or my energy back. Or something. I don't know what I want. I swear I lost my body altogether in Wednesday night's wind.

I'm not the person I thought I'd be at twenty-one. But with a body I can't feel and a brain that's bemused, how am I to know what sort of person I might be at all?


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I'm Fine.

Friday, February 13th, 2014

Dear Poppa,

Happy Birthday! Thank you for being my dad, and a great dad at that. I love you. I hope you're enjoying your trip to California - try to soak up the weather because it's pretty chilly here. Really fucking chilly.

Good news: Mercury left retrograde (I'm not sure if you know what that means, but it's a good thing), I slept last night (after vomiting the tequila shots I had pounded - I didn't inherit your ability to intake massive quantities of liquor, but then again you're really more of a rye kind of guy anyway), I ate today, got four new followers on Instagram, and I feel just fine.

I didn't leave bed, except for a cigarette. But, you know, it was a rough week. Sooner rather than later I'm going to cut back on cutting myself slack, but for at least two months now (really much longer, but let's not get too dramatic) I've been beating myself up. I've only been seeing the extra fat on my thighs and the blemishes on my face, the B+ and not the A, the love that I lost and not the love that I was lucky to have had. I've been seeing the world as a place with low ceilings and thick, muggy air; I've been feeling a force squeezing me so tight I can't escape, you know, like a straight jacket or something. But, you know, I'm really just fine, I realized today. The world's not really fine but… we'll debate that over our next family dinner. Anyway, it's difficult to forgive myself for giving up love I was lucky to have had, in a city that is cold even on the hottest summer days, and getting to that forgiveness might take a while. But I'm fine. I'm glad I can tell you this stuff, I'm glad you want to listen. Thanks, Poppa.

If I had to pick one song that reminds me of you, I think it would would be this one.

Happy birthday, Poppa! Here's to many more years of you being my dad. You've never been better at being a dad than you are right now, and I really appreciate it, because I really need you.

Love you so much,


Slipping Off Track...

Thursday, February 12, 2015

The only promises I make are promises I don't intend to keep; I know I said I would give you something good tonight, but I don't feel like it. I've been staying up until just before the sun rise and waking two hours later, haven't been eating, and I dredge myself to the shower half as often as usual. My body is so tired; it's hard to sit up in bed and my vision is confused by blotches of blues and reds. I've been pitying myself again. Not in a poetic way, if pity is ever poetic, but in a pathetic way. Something is going on and it's something I've got to snap out of. I'll let you know when I do. The fear is that perhaps I don't want to, because as long as I hide underneath the daze I'm in now I don't have to feel the things I was feeling earlier this week; I don't have to miss him, I don't have to worry if I've made a monumental mistake, I don't have to do anything.

My Bad

Wednesday, January 11th, 2015

Writing to let you know I won't be writing anything substantial tonight, too much work, too little sleep, and enough adderall that I can't think about how I'm feeling.

Promise to give it my all tomorrow though, okay?



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Fragmented Thoughts, Struggle to Write

Tuesday, February 10th, 2015

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Each time I write the date I begin to type January, as if my mind is stuck in a month that eclipsed.

Memories of the summer he and I met, or the months that followed, or the months that followed those months, jaunt in and out carelessly, humming, living a life of their own. They're guileless pests I can't bear to shoo away.

I'm indifferent about most things, maybe everything. If not indifferent, anxious.

He taught me how to get out of bed; he needed me to get out of bed.

I carry, lately, a heaviness on my body, as if a wind's gust huffs onto my shoulders from above even when I'm indoors.

He held me to a standard I didn't believe I could meet, but eventually did.

I worry I've forgotten how to get out of bed without him and I wonder how it is that such a minute action must be learned and relearned, as if it is more difficult than riding a bike. I've stopped cleaning my apartment, which is increasingly strewn with dirty underwear and rancid dishes, none of which I can force myself to wash.

He taught me fundamental things about living, like how to do things I didn't feel like doing.

We were teaching each other how to grow up.

I want so badly to be held, coddled, swaddled, rocked back and forth until the muscles in my body stir and I can climb out of bed on my own. I have to try to remember, though, that in the final months he had lost his patience. I can't blame him for that and much less for any of this. I did this. I did this.

The silhouette of all I feel is this: fear and longing.

Not Numb Enough, But Almost

Monday, February 9th, 2015

Sliding my fingers between the conditioner in my brown hair, my elbows drop when I realize I'm crying, staring into nothing, my eyes lost in the whiteness of the cotton shower curtain. This happens every day, lasts just a moment, and can happen again at any time: as I pass with glazed corneas through the turnstile underground, open a fresh can of cat food, cross Delancey, close the window, thank the bodega guy, sit in bed, or greet the delivery man who brings my dinner. Once I realize it, it stops after a breath. For the most part.


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Sunday, February 8th, 2015

Dear C, 

Hiding under the covers as I did as a child, I tucked myself below my duvet in my parents' house and fell asleep, the bedside lamp's light still shining, as I did all those years when the ghosts were out to get me.

A klonopin will only do so much to nudge aside memories of the summer we met, the summer I relaxed into your heart and you into mine, the summer we spent in that bed. I grabbed onto my pillow and bit my knuckle to keep from crying as I remembered trailing my finger tip along your eye's lid to fish the fear of falling in love out from inside you. I wanted to teach you how to trust. Your eyes were encumbered, terrified, yet they glistened in all their rawness. How quickly that terror ebbed; how closely we held one another.

How long will your ghost linger with the others in that somber room?

So much for a break from writing; I can't go two days without dangling the memory of our love in front of my eyes, some sort of nasty self-abuse. 

I miss you. Wish you would call. Want to see you on the street, want you to stop for a moment, just long enough to tell you I'm having a really hard time getting by without you. 


I know you're not reading this, but I really wish you were.

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Internal Processing

Friday, February 6th, 2015

Taking a break from writing on here for a while. Not sure how long, maybe a day or maybe a week. Too many thoughts going through my head that I don't feel comfortable sharing online; I don't want to write dishonestly. 

Peace & thanks for reading & check back soon, 


Type B, Not Type A

Wednesday, February 4th, 2015

What's it like to see in shapes? To organize buildings by the blocks of materials on their facades? To make sense out of the structures on the street? What's it like to hear in music? To read in rhythms? To twiddle your toes to the beat of the morning train's platform? 

What's it like to touch with tenderness? To balance bubbles in the tub and feel their static froth? What's it like to smell in memories? What's it like to know not only what you feel, but how you feel it? What's it like not only to identify the feeling of 'longing', but to feel it in your chest, down, down, pinching your ribcage, catapulting into your organs, and diving into your blood's stream?

Is this numbness, now, or am I moving on? What's it like to know the difference? It's better, I imagine, than this.

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Not Writing Tonight

Tuesday, February 3rd, 2015

Dear M, 

My mind has been wandering to darker places, places I don't want it to go, places that are frightening in their abyss of comfort, places that just two weeks ago I thought I wouldn't veer towards at least for a while, so I'm sleeping over tonight.

Let's smoke a bowl and take some pills. 

See you soon, 


Miss You, Still.

Monday, February 2nd, 2015

Dear C,

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The distance between us feels palpable now, maybe measurable by the inches of slush accruing between Allen Street and Brooklyn. Time feels oddly tangible: it is my frost-bitten fingertips that a year ago I could have clutched to yours inside the pocket of your jacket to try to warm, it is the month that hasn't been, the month that came and went without the sound of your voice, it is the queue of recent text exchanges none of which read your name. The more time passes without you the more I realize how long a year and a half really is, was, and how many moments were shared with you. Running over the Manhattan Bridge and up stairwells in Chinatown to catch the breeze off rooftops, stuffy noses playing tag between us, fighting over who should clean the dishes. I wish you would leave my memory alone. I wish I felt okay being alone. I wish we, I, had been able to work it out.


More Of The Same

Sunday, February 1st, 2015

Dealing now with being lonely, not because of his absence but because my own company doesn't seem to be enough, as if the company I keep with myself is empty. When did I become someone who couldn't sit with themselves? I never used to feel boredom, my thoughts could keep me playing for days on end, but now I fear where my mind will wander.

Sometimes still, I miss him so much. His voice, his bad jokes, his gentle eyes. And sometimes still, I wonder if I've made a terrible mistake. Lately I spend so much time missing.

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Should Probably Go To The Gym

Saturday, January 31st, 2015

Dear M,

I guess I'm learning how to be alone and not destruct myself, but falling is tempting. Do some people have to work harder than others to stay standing, or is everyone equally as inclined to atrophy?

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P.S. The men who take care of my building cleaned the door - bless their souls. I feel such relief, like someone has picked me up after having tripped on an unseen curb.



Friday, January 30th, 2015

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Dear C,

I dreamt a storm tore the city to ruins and everything was grey. The rubble was grey, the sky grey, the skin of the survivors grey. Fallen power cables bestrew the broken pavement like the cobwebs that layer the forgotten closet in my parent's attic. The grid was gone; crumbled towers and stacked slabs of cement separated one scene of chaos from the next.

Like the rest of the city, I wandered the streets with a handful of friends looking for something, some answer, a safety none of us could describe. A candle, perhaps, or maybe food? Everyone in the city was looking for something. And suddenly there you were, peaking around a rubble dune in search of something, though your pursuit seemed to have more direction than mine.

I woke when we parted ways not knowing what words had been exchanged, only that you were angry still, even after the city had collapsed. I went back to sleep until 2:00, and haven't left home today.

Missing you comes in waves, and it feels the worst when I can't see it coming.


Not Love, Right?

Thursday, January 29th, 2015

All I want is someone to adore me really intensley on the weekends and occasionally via text message during the week, at least while it's cold out. I would be glad to adore them too.


Wednesday, January 28th, 2015

Too much stress to write today. Check back at 3:30 AM when I can't sleep and am feeling emotional because I really don't want to sleep alone tonight; they've been turning my heat off after midnight and it would be nice to feel pale winter skin against mine.